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The Monastery 


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THE MONASTERY. 

(1820.) 



0 AY ! the Monks, the Monks, they did the mischief ! 

Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition, 

Of a most gross and superstitious age — 

May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest 
And scatter’d all these pestilential vapors ! 

But that we owed them all to yonder Harlot 
Throned on the seven hills with her cup of gold, 

1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, 

That old Moll White took wing with cat and broomstick, 

And raised the last night’s thunder. 

Old Play. 

The village described in the Benedictine’s manuscript 
by the name of Kennaquhair, bears the same Celtic termi- 
nation which occurs in Traquhair, ^'aquhair, and other 
compounds. The learned Chalme ierives this word 
Quhair, from the winding course of a stream ; a definition 
which coincides, in a remarkable degree, with the serpen- 
tine turns of the river Tweed near the village of which we 
speak. It has been long famous for the splendid Monas- 
tery of St. Mary, founded by David the First of Scotland, 
in whose reign were formed, in the same county, the no 
less splendid establishments of Melrose, Jedburgh, and 
Kelso. The donations of land with which the King en- 


48 


THE MONASTER Y. 


dowed these wealthy fraternities procured 1 
Monkish historians the epithet of Saint, and 
his impoverished descendants the splenetic cens 
he had been a sore saint for the Crown.” * 

It seems probable, notwithstanding, that David, v 
a wise as well as a pious monarch, was not moved s. 
by religious motives to those great acts of munificence Uj 
the church, but annexed political views to his pious gen- 
erosity. His possessions in Northumberland and Cumber- 
land became precarious after the loss of the Battle of the 
Standard ; and since the comparatively fertile valley of 
Teviotdale was likely to become the frontier of his king- 
dom, it is probable he wished to secure at least a part of 
these valuable possessions by placing them in the hands of 
the monks, whose property was for a long time respected, 
even amidst the rage of a frontier war. In this manner 
alone had the King some chance of insuring protection an-d 
security to the cultivators of the soil ; and, in fact, for sev- 
eral ages the possessions of these Abbeys were each a sort 
of Goshen, enjoying the calm light of peace and immunity, 
while the rest of the country, occupied by wild clans and 
marauding barons, was one dark scene of confusion, blood, 
and unremitted outrage. 

But these immunities did not continue down to the union 
of the crowns. Long before that period the wars betwixt 
England and Scotland had lost their original character of 
international hostilities, and had become on the part of the 
English a struggle for subjugation, on that of the Scots a 
desperate and infuriated defence of their liberties. This 
introduced on both sides a degree of fury and animosity 
unknown to the earlier period of their history ; and as re- 
ligious scruples soon gave way to national hatred spurred 
by a love of plunder, the patrimony of the Church was no 
longer sacred from incursions on either side. Still, how- 
ever, the tenants and vassals of the great Abbeys had many 
advantages over those of the lay barons, who were harassed 
by constant military duty, until they became desperate, 
and lost all relish for the arts of peace. The vassals of the 
Church, on the other hand, were only liable to be called 
to arms on general occasions, and at other times were per- 

* [This saying in regard to King David’s liberality in building and en- 
dowing religious houses in Scotland, as used by his successor James the 
First, is preserved in the old Scottish Chronicles, and repeated by Sir 
David Lyndsay in his Dialogue on the Monarchies , as well as in the Satyre 
on the Three Estates .] 


THE MONASTERY. 


49 


mitted in comparative quiet to possess their farms and 
feus.* They of course exhibited superior skill in every- 
thing that related to the cultivation of the soil, and were 
therefore both wealthier and better informed than the mili- 
tary retainers of the restless chiefs and nobles in their 
neighborhood. 

The residence of these church vassals was usually in a 
small village or hamlet, where, for the sake of mutual aid 
and protection, some thirty or forty families dwelt together. 
This was called the Town, and the land belonging to the 
various families by whom the Town was inhabited, was 
called the Township. They usually possessed the land in 
common, though in various proportions, according to their 
several grants. The part of the Township properly arable, 
and kept as such continually under the plough, was called 
in-field. Here the use of quantities of manure supplied in 
some degree the exhaustion of the soil, and the feuars 
raised tolerable oats and bear,! usually sowed on alternate 
ridges, on which the labor of the whole community was 
bestowed without distinction, the produce being divided 
after harvest, agreeably to their respective interests. 

There was, besides, out-field land, from which it was 
thought possible to extract a crop now and then, after 
which it was abandoned to the “skyey influences," until 
the exhausted powers of vegetation were restored. These 
out-field spots were selected by any feuar at his own choice, 
amongst the sheep-walks and hills which were always an- 
nexed to the Township, to serve as pasturage to the com- 
munity. The trouble of cultivating these patches of out- 
field,, and the precarious chance that the crop would pay 
the labor, were considered as giving a right to any feuar, 
who chose to undertake the adventure, to the produce 
which might result from it. 

There remained the pasturage of extensive moors, where 
the valleys often afforded good grass, and upon which the 
whole cattle belonging to the community fed indiscrimi- 
nately during the summer, under the charge of the Town- 
herd, who regularly drove them out to pasture in the 


* Small possessions conferred upon vassals and their heirs, held for a 
small quit-rent, or a moderate proportion of the produce. This was a fa- 
vorite manner, by which the churchmen peopled the patrimony of their 
convents ; and many descendants of such feuars , as they are called, are 
still to be found in possession of their family inheritances in the neighbor' 
hood of the great Monasteries of Scotland, 
f Or bigg, a kind of coarse barley. 


50 


THE MONASTERY. 


morning, and brought them back at night, without which 
precaution they would have fallen a speedy prey to some 
of the Snatchers in the neighborhood. These are things 
to make modern agriculturists hold up their hands and 
stare ; but the same mode of cultivation is not yet entirely 
in desuetude in some distant parts of North Britain, and 
may be witnessed in full force and exercise in the Zetland 
Archipelago. 

The habitations of the church-feuars were not less prim- 
itive than their agriculture. In each village or town were 
several small towers, having battlements projecting over 
the side walls, and usually an advanced angle or two with 
shot-holes for flanking the door-way, which was always 
defended by a strong door of oak, studded with nails, and 
often by an exterior grated door of iron. These small 
peel-houses were ordinarily inhabited by the principal 
feuarsand their families ; but, upon the alarm of approach- 
ing danger, the whole inhabitants thronged from their own 
miserable cottages, which were situated around, to garrison 
these points of defence. It was then no easy matter for a 
hostile party to penetrate into the village, for the men 
were habituated to the use of bows and fire-arms, and the 
towers being generally so placed, that the discharge from 
one crossed that of another, it was impossible to assault 
any of them individually. 

The interior of these houses was usually sufficiently 
wretched, for it would have been folly to have furnished 
them in a manner which could excite the avarice of their 
lawless neighbors. Yet the families themselves exhibited 
in their appearance a degree of comfort, information, and 
independence, which could hardly have been expected. 
Their in-field supplied them with bread and home-brewed 
ale, their herds and flocks with beef and mutton (the ex- 
travagance of killing lambs or calves was never thought 
of). Each family killed a mart, or fat bullock, in Novem- 
ber, which was salted up for winter use, to which the good- 
wife could, upon great occasions, add a dish of pigeons, ora 
fat capon — the ill-cultivated garden afforded “ lang-cale,” — 
and the river gave salmon to serve as a relish during the 
season of Lent. 

Of fuel they had plenty, for the bogs afforded turf ; and 
the remains of the abused woods continued to give them 
logs for burning, as well as timber for the usual domestic 
purposes. In addition to these comforts the goodman 
would now and then sally forth to the greenwood, and 


THE MONASTERY 


5i 


mark down a buck of season with his gun or his cross- 
bow ; and the Father Confessor seldom refused him abso- 
lution for the trespass, if duly invited to take his share of 
the smoking haunch. Some, still bolder, made, either 
with their own domestics, or by associating themselves with 
the moss-troopers, in the language of shepherds, “a start 
and overloup;” and the golden ornaments and silken 
head-gear worn by the females of one or two families of 
note, were invidiously traced by their neighbors to such 
successful excursions. This, however was a more inex- 
piable crime in the eyes of the Abbcc and Community of 
Saint Mary’s, than the borrowing one of the “gude king’s 
deer and they failed not to discountenance and punish, 
by every means in their power, offences which were sure 
to lead to severe retaliation upon the property of the 
church, and which tended to alter the character of their 
peaceful vassalage. 

As for the information possessed by those dependents of 
the Abbacies, they might have been truly said to be better 
fed than taught, even though their fare had been worse 
than it was. Still, however, they enjoyed opportunities of 
knowledge from which others were excluded. The monks 
were in general well acquainted with their vassals and ten- 
ants, and familiar in the families of the better class among 
them, where they were sure to be received with the re- 
spect due to their twofold character of spiritual father and 
secular landlord. Thus it often happened, when a boy 
displayed talents and inclination for study, one of the 
brethren, with a view to his being bred to the church, or 
out of good-nature, in order to pass away his own idle 
time, if he had no better motive, initiated him into the 
mysteries of reading and writing, and imparted to him such 
other knowledge as he himself possessed. And the heads 
of these allied families, having more time for reflection, 
and more skill, as well as stronger motives for improving 
their small properties, bore amongst their neighbors the 
character of shrewd, intelligent men, who claimed respect 
on account of their comparative wealth, even while they 
were despised for a less warlike and enterprising turn than 
the other Borderers. They lived as much as they well 
could amongst themselves, avoiding the company of others, 
and dreading nothing more than to be involved in the 
deadly feuds and ceaseless contentions of the secular land- 
holders. 

Such is a general picture of these communities. During 


52 


THE MONASTERY. 


the fatal wars in the commencement of Queen Mary’s 
reign, they had suffered dreadfully by the hostile inva- 
sions. For the English, now a Protestant people, were so 
far from sparing the church lands, that they forayed them 
with more unrelenting severity than even the possessions 
of the laity. But the peace of 1550 had restored some de- 
gree of tranquillity to those distracted and harassed regions, 
and matters began again gradually to settle upon the for- 
mer footing. The monks repaired their ravished shrines 
. — the feuar again roofed his small fortalice which the en- 
emy had ruined — the poor laborer rebuilt his cottage — an 
easy task, where a few sods, stones, and some pieces of 
wood from the next copse, furnished all the materials 
necessary. The cattle, lastly, were driven out of the 
wastes and thickets in which the remnant of them had 
been secreted ; and the mighty bull moved at the head 
of his seraglio and their followers, to take possession of 
their wonted pastures. There ensued peace and quiet, 
the state of the age and nation considered, to the Monas- 
tery of Saint Mary, and its dependencies, for several tran- 
quil years. 


CHAPTER SECOND. 

In yon lone vale his early youth was bred, 

Not solitary then — the bugle-horn 
Of fell Alecto often waked its windings, 

From where the brook joins the majestic river, 

To the wild northern bog, the curlew’s haunt, 

Where oozes forth its first and feeble streamlet. 

Old Play. 

We have said that most of the feuars dwelt in the village 
belonging to their townships. This was not, however, uni- 
versally the case. A lonely tower, to which the reader 
must now be introduced, was at least one exception to the 
general rule. 

It was of small dimensions, yet larger than those which 
occurred in the vilage, as intimating that, in case of as- 
sault, the proprietor would have to rely upon his own un- 
assisted strength. Two or three miserable huts, at the foot 
of the fortalice, held the bondsmen and tenants of the 
feuar. The site was a beautiful green knoll, which started 
up suddenly in the very throat of a wild and narrow glen, 


THE MONASTERY. 


53 


and which, being surrounded, except on one side, by the 
winding of a small stream, afforded a position of consider- 
able strength. 

But the great security of Glendearg, for so the place 
was called, lay in its secluded, and almost hidden situa- 
tion. To reach the tower it was necessary to travel three 
miles up the glen, crossing about twenty times the little 
stream, which, winding through the narrow valley, en- 
countered at every hundred yards the opposition of a rock 
or precipitous bank on the one side, which altered its 
course, and caused it to shoot off in an oblique direction 
to the other. The hills which ascend on each side of this 
glen are very steep, and rise boldly over the stream, which 
is thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides of the 
glen are impracticable for horse, and are only to be trav- 
ersed by means of the sheep-paths which lie along their 
sides. It would not be readily supposed that a road so 
hopeless and so difficult could lead to any habitation more 
important than the summer shealing of a shepherd. 

Yet the glen, though lonely, nearly inaccessible, and 
sterile, was not then absolutely void of beauty. The turf 
which covered the small portion of level ground on the 
sides of the stream, was as close and verdant as if it had 
occupied the scythes of a hundred gardeners once a fort- 
night ; and it was garnished with an embroidery of daisies 
and wild flowers, which the scythes would certainly have 
destroyed. The little brook, now confined betwixt closer 
limits, now left at large to choose its course through the 
narrow valley, danced carelessly on from stream to pool, 
light and unturbid, as that better class of spirits who pass 
their way through life, yielding to insurmountable obstacles, 
but as far from being subdued by them as the sailor who 
meets by chance with an unfavorable wind, and shapes his 
course so as to be driven back as little as possible. 

The mountains, as they would have been called in Eng- 
land, Scottice the steep braes , rose abruptly over the little glen, 
here presenting the gray face of a rock, from which the 
turf had been peeled by the torrents, and there displaying 
patches of wood and copse, which had escaped the waste 
of the cattle and the sheep of the feuars, and which, feath- 
ering naturally up the beds of empty torrents, or occupy- 
ing the concave recesses of the bank, gave at once beauty 
and variety to the landscape. Above these scattered woods 
rose the hill, in barren, but purple majesty ; the dark rich 
hue, particularly in autumn, contrasting beautifully with 


54 


THE MONASTERY . 


the thickets of oak and birch, the mountain ashes and 
thorns, the alders and quivering aspens, which checkered 
and varied the descent, and not less with the dark-green 
and velvet turf, which composed the level part of the nar- 
row glen. 

Yet, though thus embellished, the scene could neither 
be strictly termed sublime nor beautiful, and scarcely even 
picturesque or striking. But its extreme solitude pressed 
on the heart ; the traveller felt that uncertainty whither he 
was going, or in what so wild a path was to terminate, 
which, at times, strikes more on the imagination than the 
grand features of a show scene, when you know the exact 
distance of the inn where your dinner is bespoke, and at 
the moment preparing. These are ideas, however, of a far 
later age ; for at the time we treat of, the picturesque, the 
beautiful, the sublime, and all their intermediate shades, 
were ideas absolutely unknown to the inhabitants and oc- 
casional visitors of Glendearg. 

These had, however, attached to the scene feelings fitting 
the time. Its name, signifying the Red Valley, seems to 
have been derived, not only from the purple color of the 
heath, with which the upper part of the rising banks was 
profusely clothed, but also from the dark-red color of the 
rocks, and of the precipitous earthen banks, which in that 
country are called scaurs. Another glen, about the head 
of Ettrick, has acquired the same name from similar cir- 
cumstances ; and there are probably more in Scotland to 
which it has been given. 

As our Glendearg did not abound in mortal visitants, 
superstition, that it might not be absolutely destitute of 
inhabitants, had peopled its recesses with beings belong- 
ing to another world. The savage and capricious Brown 
Man of the Moors, a being which seems the genuine de 
scendant of the northern dwarfs, was supposed to be seen 
there frequently, especially after the autumnal equinox, 
when the fogs were thick, and objects not easily distin- 
guished. The Scottish fairies, too, a whimsical, irritable, 
and mischievous tribe, who, though at times capriciously 
benevolent, were more frequently adverse to mortals, were 
also supposed to have formed a residence in a particularly 
wild recess of the glen, of which the real name was, in al- 
lusion to that circumstance, Corrie nan Shian , which, in 
corrupted Celtic, signifies the Hollow of the Fairies. But 
the neighbors were more cautious in speaking about this 
place, and avoided giving it a name, from an idea com- 


THE MONASTERY, \ 


55 


mon then throughout all the British and Celtic provinces 
of Scotland, and still retained in many places, that to speak 
either good or ill of this capricious race of imaginary be- 
ings is to provoke their resentment, and that secrecy and 
silence is what they chiefly desire from those who may in* 
trude upon their revels, or discover their haunts. 

A mysterious terror was thus attached to the dale, which 
afforded access from the broad valley of the Tweed, up the 
little glen we have described, to the fortalice called the 
Tower of Glendearg. Beyond the knoll where, as we have 
said, the tower w T as situated, the hills grew more steep, and 
narrowed on the slender brook, so as scarce to leave a foot- 
path ; and there the glen terminated in a wild waterfall, 
where a slender thread of water dashed in a precipitous 
line of foam over two or three precipices. Yet farther in 
the same direction, and above these successive cataracts, 
lay a wild and extensive morass, frequented only by water- 
fowl, wide, waste, apparently almost interminable, and serv- 
ing in a great measure to separate the inhabitants of the 
glen from those who lived to the northward. 

To restless and indefatigable moss-troopers, indeed, these 
morasses were well known, and sometimes afforded a re- 
treat. They often rode down the glen — called at this 
tower — asked and received hospitality — but still with a sort 
of reserve on the part of its more peaceful inhabitants, who 
entertained them as a party of North American Indians 
might be received by a new European settler, as much out 
of fear as hospitality, while the uppermost wish of the land- 
lord is the speedy departure of the savage guests. 

This had not always been the current of feeling in the 
little valley and its tower. Simon Glendinning, its former 
inhabitant, boasted his connection by blood to that ancient 
family of Glendonwvne, on the western border. He used 
to narrate at his fireside, in the autumn evenings, the feats 
of the family to which he belonged, one of whom fell by 
the side of the brave Earl of Douglas at Otterbourne. On 
these occasions Simon usually held upon his knee an 
ancient broadsword, which had belonged to his ancestors 
before any of the family had consented to accept a fief 
under the peaceful dominion of the Monks of St. Mary’s. 
In modern days Simon might have lived at ease on his own 
estate, and quietly murmured against the fate that had 
doomed him to dwell there, and cut off his access to mar- 
tial renown. But so many opportunities, nay, so many 
calls there were for him, who in those days spoke big, to 


56 


THE MONASTERY. 


make good his words by his actions, that Simon Glendin- 
ning was soon under the necessity of marching with the 
men of the Halidome, as it was called, of St. Mary’s, in 
that disastrous campaign which was concluded by the battle 
of Pinkie. 

The Catholic clergy were deeply interested in that na- 
tional quarrel, the principal object of which was to prevent 
the union of the infant Queen Mary with the son of the 
heretical Henry VIII. The Monks had called out their 
vassals under an experienced leader. Many of themselves 
had taken arms, and marched to the field, under a banner 
representing a female, supposed to personify the Scottish 
Church, kneeling in the attitude of prayer, with the legend, 
Afflict ce Sponsce. ne obliviscaris * 

The Scots, however, in all their wars had more occasion 
for good and cautious generals than for excitation, whether 
political or enthusiastic. Their headlong and impatient 
courage uniformly induced them to rush into action with- 
out duly weighing either their own situation or that of 
their enemies, and the inevitable consequence was frequent 
defeat. With the dolorous slaughter of Pinkie we have 
nothing to do, excepting that, among ten thousand men of 
low and high degree, Simon Glendinning of the Tower of 
Glendearg bit the dust, no way disparaging in his death 
that ancient race from which he claimed his descent. 

When the doleful news, which spread terror and mourn- 
ing through the whole of Scotland, reached the Tower of 
Glendearg, the widow of Simon, Elspeth Brydone by her 
family name, was alone in that desolate habitation, except- 
ing a hind or two, alike past martial and agricultural labor, 
and the helpless widows and families of those who had 
fallen with their master. The feeling of desolation was 
universal ; — but what availed it ? The monks, their patrons 
and protectors, were driven from their Abbey by the Eng- 
lish forces, who now overran the country, and enforced at 
least an appearance of submission on the part of the in- 
habitants. The Protector Somerset formed a strong camp 
among the ruins of the ancient Castle of Roxburgh, and 
compelled the neighboring country to come in, pay 
tribute, and take assurance from him, as the phrase then 
went. Indeed, there was no power of resistance remain- 
ing ; and the few barons whose high spirit disdained even 
the appearance of surrender could only retreat into the 


Forget not the afflicted spouse. 


THE MONASTERY. 


57 


wildest fastnesses of the country, leaving their houses and 
property to the wrath of the English, who detached parties 
everywhere to distress, by military exaction, those whose 
chiefs had not made their submission. The Abbot and his 
community having retreated beyond the Forth, their lands 
were severely forayed, as their sentiments were held pecul- 
iarly inimical to the alliance with England. 

Amongst the troops detached on this service was a small 
party commanded by Stawarth Bolton, a captain in the 
English army, and full of the blunt and unpretending gal- 
lantry and generosity which has so often distinguished that 
nation. Resistance was in vain. Elspeth Brydone, when 
she descried a dozen of horsemen threading their way up 
the glen, with a man at their head, whose scarlet cloak, 
bright armor, and dancing plume, proclaimed him a leader, 
saw no better protection for herself than to issue from the 
iron grate, covered with a long mourning veil, and holding 
one of her two sons in each hand, to meet the Englishman 
— state her deserted condition — place the little tower at 
his command — and beg for his mercy. She stated in a 
few brief words her intention, and added, “ I submit, be- 
cause I have nae means of resistance.” 

“And I do not ask your submission, mistress, for the 
same reason,” replied the Englishman. “To be satisfied 
of your peaceful intentions is all I ask ; and from what 
you tell me there is no reason to doubt them.” 

“At least, sir,” said Elspeth Brydone, “take share of 
what our spence and our garners afford. Your horses are 
tired — your folk want refreshment.” 

“Not a whit — not a whit,” answered the honest English- 
man ; “ it shall never be said we disturbed by carousal the 
widow of a brave soldier while she was mourning for her 
husband. — Comrades, face about. — Yet stay,” he added, 
checking his war-horse, “my parties are out in every di- 
rection ; they must have some token that your family are 
under my assurance of safety. — Here, my little fellow,” 
said he, speaking to the eldest boy, who might be about 
nine or ten years old, “ lend me th v bonnet.” 

The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated, while 
the mother, with many a fye and nay pshaw , and such sar- 
senet chidings as tender mothers give to spoiled children, 
at length succeeded in snatching the bonnet from him, and 
handing it to the English leader. 

Stawarth Bolton took his embroidered red cross from his 
barret-cap, and putting it into the loop of the boy’s bonnet. 


58 


THE MONASTERY. 


said to the mistress (for the title of lady was not given to 
dames of her degree), “By this token, which all my peo- 
ple will respect, you will be freed from any importunity 
on the part of our forayers.”* He placed it on the boy’s 
head ; but it was no sooner there, than the little fellow, his 
veins swelling, and his eyes shooting fire through tears, 
snatched the bonnet from his head, and, ere his mother 
could interfere, skimmed it into the brook. The other 
boy ran instantly to fish it out again, threw it back to his 
brother, first taking out the cross, which, with great ven- 
eration, he kissed and put into his bosom. The English- 
man was half diverted, half surprised with the scene. 

“What mean ye by throwing away Saint George’s red 
cross ? ” said he to the elder boy, in atone betwixt jest and 
earnest. 

“ Because Saint George is a southern saint,” said the 
child, sulkily. 

“Good! ’’said Stawarth Bolton. — “And what did you 
mean by taking it out of the brook again, my little fellow ? ” 
he demanded of the younger. 

“ Because the priest says it is the common sign of sal- 
vation to all good Christians.” 

“ Why, good again ! ” said the honest soldier. “ I pro- 
test unto you, mistress, I envy you these boys. Are they 
both yours ? ” 

Stawarth Bolton had reason to put the question, for 
Halbert Glendinning, the elder of the two, had hair as dark 
as the raven’s plumage, black eyes, large, bold and spark- 
ling, that glittered under eyebrows of the same complexion ; 
a skin deep embrowned, though it could not be termed 
swarthy, and an air of activity, frankness, and determina- 
tion, far beyond his age. On the other hand, Edward, the 
younger brother, was light-haired, blue-eyed, and of fairer 
complexion, in countenance rather pale, and not exhibiting 
that rosy hue which colors the sanguine cheek of robust 
health. Yet the boy had nothing sickly or ill-conditioned 
in his look, but was, on the, contrary, a fair and handsome 
child, with a smiling face, and mild, yet cheerful eye. 

The mother glanced a proud motherly glance, first at 
the one, and then at the other, ere she answered the Eng- 
lishman, “ Surely, sir, they are both my children.” 

“And by the same father, mistress ? ” said Stawarth ; but, 
seeing a blush of displeasure arise on her brow, he instant- 


* Note C. Gallantry. 


THE MONASTERY. 


59 


ly added, “Nay, I mean no offence ; I would have asked 
the same question at any of my gossips in merry Lincoln. — • 
Well, dame, you have two fair boys ; I would I could bor- 
row one, for Dame Bolton and I live childless in our old 
hall. — Come, little fellows, which of you will go with me ? ” 

The trembling mother, half fearing as he spoke, drew 
the children toward her, one with either hand, while they 
both answered the stranger. “I will not go with you,” 
said Halbert, boldly, “ for you are a false-hearted Southern; 
and the Southerns killed my father ; and I will war on you 
to the death, when I can draw my father’s sword.” 

“ God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt,” said Stawarth, “the 
goodly custom of deadly feud will never go down in thy 
day, I presume. — And you, my fine white-head, will you 
not go with me, to ride a cock-horse ?” 

“No,” said Edward, demurely, “for you are a heretic.” 

“Why, God-a-mercy still!” said Stawarth Bolton. 
“ Well, dame, I see I shall find no recruits for my troop 
from you ; and yet I do envy you these two little chubby 
knaves.” He sighed a moment, as was visible, in spite of 
gorget and corselet, and then added, “And yet, my dame 
and I would but quarrel which of the knaves we should 
like best ; for I should wish for the black-eyed rogue — and 
she, I warrant me, for that blue-eyed, fair-haired darling. 
Natheless, we must brook our solitary wedlock, and wish 
joy to those that are more fortunate. Sergeant Brittson, 
do thou remain here till recalled — protect this family, as 
under assurance — do them no wrong, and suffer no wrong 
to be done to them, as thou wilt answer it. — Dame, Brittson 
is a married man, old and steady ; feed him on what you 
will, but give him not over much liquor.” 

Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but with 
a faltering voice, and an obvious desire her invitation 
should not be accepted. The fact was, that, supposing her 
boys as precious in the eyes of the Englishman as in her 
own (the most ordinary of parental errors), she was half 
afraid that the admiration he expressed of them in his 
blunt manner might end in his actually carrying one or 
other of the little darlings whom he appeared to covet so 
much. She kept hold of their hands, therefore, as if her 
feeble strength could have been of service, had any vio- 
lence been intended, and saw, with joy she could not dis* 
guise, the little party of horse countermarch, in order to 
descend the glen. Her feelings did not escape Stawarth 
Bolton : “ I forgive you, dame,” he said, “ for being sus* 


6o 


THE MONASTERY. 


picious that an English falcon was hovering over youi 
Scottish moorbrood. But fear not — those who have fewest 
children have fewest cares ; nor does a wise man covet 
those of another household. Adieu, dame ; when the black- 
eyed rogue is able to drive a foray from England, teach 
him to spare women and children, for the sake of Stawarth 
Bolton.” 

“God be with you, gallant Southern !” said Elspeth 
Glendinning, but not till he was out of hearing, spurring 
on his good horse to regain the head of his party, whose 
plumage and armor were now glancing and gradually dis- 
appearing in the distance, as they winded down the glen. 

“ Mother,” said the elder boy, “ I will not say amen to a 
prayer for a Southern.” 

“ Mother,” said the younger, more reverentially, “ is it 
right to pray for a heretic ? ” 

“ The God to whom I pray only knows,” answered poor 
Elspeth ; “ but these two words, Southern and heretic, have 
already cost Scotland ten thousand of her best and bravest, 
and me a husband, and you a father ; and, whether blessing 
or banning, I never wish to hear them more. — Follow me 
to the Place, sir,” she said to Brittson, “ and such as we 
have to offer you shall be at your disposal.” 


CHAPTER THIRD. 

They lighted down on Tweed water, 

And blew their coals sae het, 

And fired the March and Teviotdale, 

All in an evening late. 

Auld Maitland. 

The report soon spread through the patrimony of Saint 
Mary’s and its vicinity, that the Mistress of Glendearg had 
received assurance from the English Captain, and that her 
cattle were not to be driven off, or her corn burned. 
Among others who heard this report, it reached the ears 
of a lady, who, once much higher in rank than Elspeth 
Glendinning, was now by the same calamity reduced to 
even greater misfortune. 

She was the widow of a brave soldier, Walter Avenel, 
descended of a very ancient Border family, who once pos- 
sessed immense estates in Eskdale. These had long since 
passed from them into other hands, but they still enjoyed 


THE MONASTERY. 


6t 


an ancient Barony of considerable extent, not very faf 
from the patrimony of Saint Mary’s, and lying upon the 
same side of the river with the narrow vale of Glendearg, 
at the head of which was the little tower of the Glendin- 
nings. Here they had lived, bearing a respectable rank 
amongst the gentry of their province, though neither 
wealthy nor powerful. This general regard had been 
much augmented by the skill, courage, and enterprise 
which had been displayed by Walter Avenel, the last 
Baron. 

When Scotland began to recover from the dreadful shock 
she had sustained after the battle of Pinkie-Cleuch,* Avenel 
was one of the first who, assembling a small force, set an 
example in those bloody and unsparing skirmishes, which 
showed that a nation, though conquered and overrun by 
invaders, may yet wage against them such a war of detail 
as shall in the end become fatal to the foreigners. In one 
of these, however, Walter Avenel fell, and the news which 
came to the house of his fathers was followed by the dis- 
tracting intelligence, that a party of Englishmen were 
coming to plunder the mansion and lands of his widow, in 
order, by this act of terror, to prevent others from follow- 
ing the example of the deceased. 

The unfortunate lady had no better refuge that the mis- 
erable cottage of a shepherd among the hills, to which she 
was hastily removed, scarce conscious where or for what 
purpose her terrified attendants were removing her and her 
infant daughter from her own house. Here she was tended 
with all the duteous service of ancient times by the shep- 
herd’s wife, Tibb Tacket, who in better days had been her 
own bowerwoman. For a time the lady was unconscious 
of her misery ; but when the first stunning effect of grief 
was so far passed away that she could form an estimate 
of her own situation, the widow of Avenel had cause to 
envy the lot of her husband in his dark and silent abode. 
The domestics who had guided her to her place of refuge, 
were presently obliged to disperse for their own safety, 
or to seek for necessary subsistence ; and the shepherd 
and his wife, whose poor cottage she shared, were soon 
after deprived of the means of affording their late mistress 
even that coarse sustenance which they had gladly shared 
with her. Some of the English forayers had discovered 

* [This engagement took place in 1547 on a field about seven miles east 
of Edinburgh. The Scotch forces were defeated with much loss by the 
English under the Earl Hertford, afterwards Duke of Somerset.] 


62 


THE MONASTERY. 


and driven off the few sheep which had escaped the first 
researches of their avarice. Two cows shared the fate of 
the remnant of their stock ; they had afforded the family 
almost their sole support, and now famine appeared to 
stare them in the face. 

“ We are broken and beggared now, out and out,” said 
old Martin the shepherd — and he wrung his hands in the 
bitterness of agony, “the thieves, the harrying thieves! 
not a cloot left of the haill hirsel !” 

“And to see poor Grizzy and Crumbie,” said his wife, 
“ turning back their necks to the byre, and routing while 
the stony-hearted villains were brogging them on wi’ their 
lances ? ” 

“ There were but four of them,” said Martin, “ and I have 
seen the day forty wad not have ventured this length. But 
our strength and manhood* is gane with our puir maister.” 

“For the sake of the holy rood, whisht, man,” said the 
gude wife, “ our leddy is half gane already, as ye may see 
by that fleightering of the ee-lid — a word mair and she’s 
dead outright.” 

“I could almost wish,” said Martin, “we were a’ gane, 
for what to do passes my puir wit. I care little for mysell, 
or you, Tibb — we can make a fend — work or want — we 
can do baith, but she can do neither.” 

They canvassed their situation thus openly before the 
lady, convinced by the paleness of her look, her quivering 
lip, and dead-set eye, that she neither heard nor under- 
stood what they were saying. 

“There is a way,” said the shepherd, “but I kenna if 
she could bring her heart to it — there’s Simon Glendin- 
ning’s widow of the glen yonder, has had assurance from 
the Southern loons, and nae soldier to steer them for one 
cause or other. Now, if the leddy could bow her mind to 
take quarters with Elspeth Glendinning till better days 
cast up, nae doubt it wad be doing an honor to the like of 
her, but” 

“An honor,” answered Tibb, “ay, by my word, sic an 
honor as wad be pride to her kin mony a lang year after 
her banes were in the mould. Oh! gudeman, to hear ye 
even the Lady of Avenel to seeking quarters wi’ a Kirk- 
vassal’s widow ! ” 

“ Loath should I be to wish her to it,’ said Martin ; “but 
what may we do ? — to stay here is mere starvation ; and 
where to go, I’m sure I ken nae mair than ony tup I ever 
herded.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


63 


“ Speak no more of it,” said the widow of Avenel, sud- 
denly joining in the conversation, “ I will go to the tower. 
Dame Thspeth is of good folk, a widow, and the mother of 
orphans — she will give us house-room until something be 
thought upon. These evil showers make the low bush 
better than no bield.” * 

“See there, see there,” said Martin, “you see the leddy 
has twice our sense.” 

“And natural it is,” said Tibb, “seeing that she is con- 
vent-bred, and can lay silk broidery, forby white-seam and 
shell-work.” 

“ Do you not think,” said the lady to Martin, still clasping 
her child to her bosom, and making it clear from what 
motives she desired the refuge, “ that Dame Glendinning 
will make us welcome ? ” 

“ Blithely welcome, blithely welcome, my leddy,” an- 
swered Martin cheerily, “and we shall deserve a welcome 
at her hand. Men are scarce now, my leddy, with these 
wars, and gie me a thought of time to it, I can do as good 
a day’s darg as ever I did in my life, and Tibb can sort 
cows with ony living woman.” 

“And muckle mair could I do,” said Tibb, “were it 
ony feasible house ; but there will be neither pearlins 
to mend, nor pinners to busk up, in Elspeth Glendin- 
ning’s.” 

“ Whisht wi’ your pride, woman,'’ said the shepherd ; 
“eneugh ye can do, baith outside and inside, and yet set 
your mind to it ; and hard it is if we twa canna work for 
three folks’ meat, forby my dainty wee leddy there. Come 
awa, come awa, nae use in staying here langer ; we have 
five Scots miles over moss and muir, and that is nae easy 
walk for a leddy born and bred.” 

Household stuff there was little or none to remove or 
care for ; an old pony which had escaped the plunderers, 
owing partly to its pitiful appearance, partly from the re- 
luctance which it showed to be caught by strangers, was 
employed to carry the few blankets and other trifles which 
they possessed. When Shagram came to his master’s well- 
known whistle, he was surprised to find the poor thing had 
been wounded, though slightly, by an arrow, which one 
of the forayers had shot off in anger after he had long 
chased it in vain. 

“Ay, Shagram,” said the old man, as he applied some- 
thing to the wound, “ must you rue the lang-bow as weeJ 
as all of us ? v 


6 4 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ What corner in Scotland rues it not ?” said the Lady of 
Aye n el. 

“Ay, ay, madam,” said Martin, “God keep the kindly 
Scot from the cloth-yard shaft, and he will keep himself 
from the handy stroke. But let us go our way ; the trash 
that is left I can come back for.* There is nae ane to stir it 
but the good neighbors, and they” 

“For the love of God, goodman,” said his wife, in a re- 
monstrating tone, “haud your peace ! Think what ye’re 
saying, and we hae sae muckle wild land to go over be- 
fore we win to the girth gate.” 

The husband nodded acquiescence ; for it was deemed 
highly imprudent to speak of the fairies, either by their 
title of good neighbors or by any other, especially when 
about to pass the places which they were supposed to 
haunt.* 

They set forward on their pilgrimage on the last day of 
October. “This is thy birthday, my sweet Mary,” said 
the mother, as a sting of bitter recollection crossed her 
mind. “ Oh, who could have believed that the head, which, 
a few years since, was cradled amongst so many rejoicing 
friends, may perhaps this night seek a cover in vain ! ” 

The exiled family then set forward, — Mary Avenel, i 
lovely girl between five and six years old, riding gips} 
fashion upon Shagram, betwixt two bundles of bedding ■, 
the Lady of Avenel walking by the animal’s side ; Tibb 
leading the bridle, and old Martin walking a little before, 
looking anxiously around him to explore the way. 

Martin’s task as' guide, after two or three miles’ walking, 
became more difficult than he himself had expected, or 
than he was willing to avow. It happened that the exten- 
sive range of pasturage, with which he was conversant, lay 
to the west, and to get into the little valley of Glendearg 
he had to proceed easterly. In the wilder districts of Scot- 
land, the passage from one vale to another, otherwise than 
by descending that which you leave, and reascending the 
other, is often very difficult. — Heights and hollows, masses, 
and rocks intervene, and all those local impediments which 
throw a traveller out of his course. So that Martin, how- 
ever sure of his general direction, became conscious, and 
at length was forced reluctantly to admit, that he had 
missed the direct road to Glendearg, though he insisted 
they must be very near it. “ If we can but win across this 


* Note D. The Fairies. 


THE MONASTERY. 65 

wide bog,” he said, “ I shall warrant ye are on the top of 
the tower.” 

But to get across the bog was a point of no small diffi- 
culty. The farther they ventured into it, though proceed- 
ing with all the caution which Martin’s experience recom- 
mended, the more unsound the ground became, until after 
they had passed some places of great peril, their best argu- 
ment for going forward came to be, that they had to en- 
counter equal danger in returning. 

The Lady of Avenel had been tenderly nurtured, but 
what will not a woman endure when her child is in dan- 
ger ? Complaining less of the dangers of the road than 
her attendants, who had been inured to such from their in- 
fancy, she kept herself close by the side of the pony, 
watching its every footstep, and ready, if it should flounder 
in the morass, to snatch her little Mary from its back. At 
length they came to a place where the guide greatly hesi- 
tated, for all around him were broken lumps of heath, 
divided from each other by deep sloughs of black tena- 
cious mire. After great consideration, Martin, selecting 
what he thought the safest path, began himself to lead for- 
ward Shagram, in order to afford greater security to the 
child. But Shagram snorted, laid his ears back, stretched 
his two feet forward, and drew his hind feet under him, so 
as to adopt the best possible posture for obstinate resist- 
ance, and refused to move one yard in the direction indi- 
cated. Old Martin, much puzzled, now hesitated whether 
to exert his absolute authority, or to defer to the contuma- 
cious obstinacy of Shagram, and was not greatly comforted 
by his wife’s observation, who, seeing Shagram stare with 
his eyes, distend his nostrils, and tremble with terror, 
hinted that “ he surely saw no more than they could see.” 

In this dilemma, the child suddenly exclaimed — “ Bonny 
leddy signs to us to come yon gate.” They all looked in 
the direction where the child pointed, but saw nothing, 
save a wreath of rising mist, which fancy might form into 
a human figure ; but which afforded to Martin only the 
sorrowful conviction, that the danger of their situation was 
about to be increased by a heavy fog. lie once more es- 
sayed to lead forward Shagram ; but the animal was inflex- 
ible in its determination not to move in the direction 
Martin recommended. “Take your awn way for it, then,” 
said Martin, “and let us see what you can do for us.” 

Shagram, abandoned to the discretion of his own free- 
will, set off boldly in the direction the child had pointed 

5 


66 


THE MONASTERY. 


There was nothing wonderful in this, nor in its bringing 
them safe to the other side of the dangerous morass ; for 
the instinct of these animals in traversing bogs is one ot 
the most curious parts of their nature, and is a fact generally 
established. But it was remarkable, that the child more 
than once mentioned the beautiful lady and her signals, 
and that Shagram seemed to be in the secret, always mov- 
ing in the same direction which she indicated. The Lady 
of Avenel took little notice at the time, her mind being 
probably occupied by the instant danger ; but her attend- 
ants exchanged expressive looks with each other more than 
once. 

“ All-Hallow Eve ! ” said Tibb, in a whisper to Martin. 

“ For the mercy of Our Lady, not a word of that now ! ” 
said Martin, in reply. “ Tell your beads, woman, if you 
cannot be silent.” 

When they got once more on firm ground, Martin recog- 
nized certain landmarks, or cairns, on the tops of the 
neighboring hills, by which he was enabled to guide his 
course, and ere long they arrived at the Tower of Glen- 
dearg. 

It was at the sight of this little fortalice that the misery 
of her lot pressed hard on the poor Lady of Avenel. When 
by any accident they had met at church, market, or other 
place of public resort, she remembered the distant and re- 
spectful air with which the wife of the warlike baron was 
addressed by the spouse of the humble feuar. And now, 
so much was her pride humbled, that she was to ask to 
share the precarious safety of the same feuar’s widow, and 
her pittance of food, which might perhaps be yet more 
precarious. Martin probably guessed what was passing 
in her mind, for he looked at her with a wistful glance, as 
if to deprecate any change of resolution ; and answering 
to his looks, rather than his words, she said, while the 
sparkle of subdued pride once more glanced from her eye, 
“ If it were for myself alone, I could but die — but for this 
infant — the last pledge of Avenel ” 

“True, my lady,” said Martin, hastily ; and, as if to pre- 
vent the possibility of her retracing, he added, “ I will 
step on and see Dame Elspeth — I kend her husband weel, 
and have bought and sold with him, for as great a man as 
he was.” 

Martin’s tale was soon told, and met all acceptance from 
her companion in misfortune. The Lady of Avenel had 
been meek and courteous in her prosperity ; in adversity, 


THE MONASTERY. 


67 


therefore, she met with the greatest sympathy. Besides, 
there was a point of pride in sheltering and supporting a 
woman of such superior birth and rank ; and, not to do 
Elspeth Glendinning injustice, she felt sympathy for one 
whose fate resembled her own in so many points, yet was 
so much more severe. Every species of hospitality was 
gladly and respectfully extended to the distressed travel- 
lers, and they were kindly requested to stay as long at 
Glendearg as their circumstances rendered necessary, 01 
their inclination prompted. 


CHAPTER FOURTH. 

Ne’er be I found by thee o’ era wed, 

In that thrice-hallow’d eve, abroad, 

When goblins haunt, from fire, or fen, 

Or mine, or flood, the walks of men ! 

Collins’s Ode to Fear. 

As the country became more settled, the Lady of Avenel 
would have willingly returned to her husband’s mansion. 
But that was no longer in her power. It was a reign of 
minority, when the strongest had the best right, and when 
acts of usurpation were frequent amongst those who had 
much power and little conscience. 

Julian Avenel, the younger brother of the deceased 
Walter, was a person of this description. He hesitated 
not to seize upon his brother’s house and lands, so soon as 
the retreat of the English permitted him. At first, he oc- 
cupied the property in the name of his niece ; but when 
the lady proposed to return with her child to the mansion 
of its fathers, he gave her to understand, that Avenel, be- 
ing a male fief, descended to the brother, instead of the 
daughter, of the last possessor. The ancient philosopher 
declined a dispute with the emperor who commanded 
twenty legions, and the widow of Walter Avenel was in no 
condition to maintain a contest with the leader of twenty 
moss-troopers. Julian was also a man of service, who 
could back a friend in case of need, and was sure, there- 
fore, to find protectors among the ruling powers. In 
shorj, however clear the little Mary’s right to the pos- 
sessions of her father, her mother saw the necessity of 
giving way, at least for the time, to the usurpation of her 
uncle. 


68 


THE MONASTERY. 


Her patience and forbearance were so far attended with 
advantage, that Julian, for very shame’s sake, could no 
longer suffer her to be absolutely dependent on the charity 
of Elspeth Glendinning. A drove of cattle and a bull 
(which were probably missed by some English farmer) 
were driven to the pastures of Glendearg ; presents of 
raiment and household stuff were sent liberally, and some 
little money, though with a more sparing hand ; for those 
in the situation of Julian Avenel could come more easily 
by the goods, than the representing medium of value, and 
made their payments chiefly in kind. 

In the meantime, the widows of Walter Avenel and 
Simon Glendinning had become habituated to each other’s 
society, and were unwilling to part. The lady could hope 
no more secret and secure residence than in the Tower of 
Glendearg, and she was now in a condition to support her 
share of the mutual housekeeping. Elspeth, on the other 
hand, felt pride, as well as pleasure, in the society of a 
guest of such distinction, and was at all times willing to 
pay much greater deference than the Lady of Walter Avene 5 
could be prevailed on to accept. 

Martin and his wife diligently served the united family 
in their several vocations, and yielded obedience to both 
mistresses, though always considering themselves as the 
especial servants of the Lady of Avenel. This distinction 
sometimes occasioned a slight degree of difference between 
Dame Elspeth and Tibb ; the former being jealous of her 
own consequence, and the latter apt to lay too much stress 
upon the rank and family of her mistress. But both were 
alike desirous to conceal such petty squabbles from the 
lady, her hostess scarce yielding to her old domestic in re- 
spect for her person. Neither did the difference exist in 
such a degree as to interrupt the general harmony of the 
family, for the one wisely gave way as she saw the other 
become warm ; and Tibb, though she often gave the first 
provocation, had generally the sense to be the first in relin- 
quishing the argument. 

The world which lay beyond was gradually forgotten by 
the inhabitants of this sequestered glen, and unless when 
she attended mass at the Monastery Church upon some 
high holiday, Alice of Avenel almost forgot that she once 
held an equal rank with the proud wives of the neighbor- 
ing barons and nobles who on such occasions crowded to 
the solemnity. The recollection gave her little pain. She 
loved her husband for himself, and in his inestimable loss 


THE MONASTERY. 


69 


all lesser subjects of regret had ceased to interest her. At 
times, indeed, she thought of claiming the protection of 
the Queen Regent (Mary of Guise) for her little orphan, 
but the fear of Julian Avenel always came between. She 
was sensible that he would have neither scruple nor diffi- 
culty in spiriting away the child (if he did not proceed 
farther) should he once consider its existence as formida- 
ble to his interest. Besides, he led a wild and unsettled 
life, mingling in all feuds and forays, wherever there was 
a spear to be broken ; he evinced no purpose of marrying, 
and the fate which he continually was braving might at 
length remove him from his usurped inheritance. Alice 
of Avenel, therefore, judged it wise to check all ambitious 
thoughts for the present, and remain quiet in the rude, but 
peaceable retreat, to which Providence had conducted her. 

It was upon an All- Hallow’s Eve, when the family had 
resided together for the space of three years, that the do- 
mestic circle was assembled round the blazing turf-fire, in 
the old narrow hall of the Tower of Glendearg. The idea 
of the master or mistress of the mansion feeding or living 
apart from their domestics, was at this period never enter- 
tained. The highest end of the board, the most commo- 
dious settle by the fire — these were the only marks of dis- 
tinction ; and the servants mingled, with deference indeed, 
but unreproved and with freedom, in whatever conversa- 
tion was going forward. But the two or three domestics, 
kept merely for agricultural purposes, had retired to their 
own cottages without, and with them a couple of wenches, 
usually employed within doors, the daughters of one of the 
hinds. 

After their departure, Martin locked, first, the iron 
grate, and, secondly, the inner door of the tower, when 
the domestic circle was thus arranged. Dame Elspeth sat 
pulling the thread from her distaff ; Tibb watched the 
progress of scalding the whey, which hung in a large pot 
upon the crook , a chain terminated by a hook, which was 
suspended in the chimney to serve the purpose of the 
modern crane. Martin, while busied in repairing some of 
the household articles (for every man in those days was 
his own carpenter and smith, as well as his own tailor and 
shoemaker), kept from time to time a watchful eye upon 
the three children. 

They were allowed, however, to exercise their juvenile 
restlessness by running up and down the hall, behind the 
seats of the elder members of the family, with the privilege 


70 


THE MONASTERY. 


of occasionally making excursions into one or two small 
apartments which opened from it, and gave excellent op- 
portunity to play at hide-and-seek. This night, however, 
the children seemed not disposed to avail themselves of 
their privilege of visiting these dark regions, but preferred 
carrying on their gambols in the vicinity of the light. 

In the meanwhile, Alice of Avenel, sitting close to an 
iron candlestick, which supported a misshapen torch of 
domestic manufacture, read small detached passages from 
a thick clasped volume, which she preserved with the 
greatest care. The art of reading the lady had acquired 
by her residence in a nunnery during her youth, but she 
seldom, of late years, put it to any other use than perusing 
this little volume, which formed her whole library. The 
family listened to the portions which she selected, as to 
some good thing which there was a merit in hearing with 
respect, whether it was fully understood or no. To her 
daughter, Alice of Avenel had determined to impart their 
mystery more fully, but the knowledge was at that period 
attended with personal danger, and was not rashly to be 
trusted to a child. 

The noise of the romping children interrupted, from time 
to time, the voice of the lady, and drew on the noisy cul- 
prits the rebuke of Elspeth. 

“ Could they not go farther a-field, if they behoved to 
make such a din, and disturb the lady’s good words?" 
And this command was backed with the threat of sending 
the whole party to bed if it was not attended to punctually. 
Acting under the injunction, the children first played at a 
greater distance from the party, and more quietly, and 
then began to stray into the adjacent apartments, as they 
became impatient of the restraint to which they were sub- 
jected. But, all at once, the two boys came open-mouthed 
into the hall, to tell that there was an armed man in the 
spence. 

“It must be Christie of Clinthill,” said Martin, rising; 
u what can have brought him here at this time ? ” 

“ Or how came he in ? ” said Elspeth. 

“ Alas ! what can he seek ? ” said the Lady of Avenel, to 
whom this man, a retainer of her husband’s brother, and who 
sometimes executed his commissions at Glendearg, was an 
object of secret apprehension and suspicion. “ Gracious 
Eleavens ! ” she added, rising up, “ where is my child ? ” 
All rushed to the spence, Halbert Glendinning first arming 
himself with a rusty sword, and the younger seizing upon 


THE MONASTERY. 


71 


the lady’s book. They hastened to the spence, and were 
relieved of a part of their anxiety by meeting Mary at the 
door of the apartment. She did not seem in the slightest 
degree alarmed, or disturbed. They rushed into the spence 
(a sort of interior apartment in which the family ate their 
victuals in the summer season), but there was no one 
there. 

“Where is Christie of Clinthill ? ” asked Martin. 

“ I do not know,” said little Mary ; “I never saw him.” 

“And what made you, ye misleard loons,” said Dame 
Elspeth to her two boys, “ come yon gate into the ha’, 
roaring like bullsegs, to frighten the leddy, and her far 
frae strong?” The boys looked at each other in silence 
and confusion, and their mother proceeded with her lect- 
ure. “Could ye find nae night for daffin but Hallowe’en, 
and nae time but when the leddy was reading to us about 
the holy Saints ? May ne’er be in my fingers, if I dinna 
sort ye baith for it ! ” The eldest boy bent his eyes on the 
ground, the younger began to weep, but neither spoke ; 
and the mother would have proceeded to extremities, but 
for the interposition of the little maiden. 

“ Dame Elspeth, it was my fault — I did say to them, that 
I saw a man in the spence.” 

“And what made you do so, child,” said her mother, “to 
startle us all thus ? ” 

“ Because,” said Mary, lowering her voice, “ I could not 
help it.” 

“Not help it, Mary ! — you occasioned all this idle noise, 
and you could not help it ? How mean you by that, 
minion ? ” 

“There really was an armed man in this spence,” said 
Mary ; “ and because I was surprised to see him, I cried 
out to Halbert and Edward ” 

“She has told it herself,” said Halbert Glendinning, “or 
it had never been told by me.” 

“ Nor by me neither,” said Edward, emulously. 

“Mistress Mary,” said Elspeth, “you never told us any- 
thing before that was not true ; tell us if this was a Hal 
lowe’en cantrip, and make an end of it.” The Lady of 
Avenel looked as if she would have interfered, but knew 
not how ; and Elspeth, who was too eagerly curious to re- 
gard any distant hint, persevered in her inquiries. “ Was 
it Christie of the Clinthill ? — I would not for a mark that he 
were about the house, and a body no ken whare.” 

“It was not Christie,” said Mary; “it was — it was a 


72 


THE MONASTERY. 


gentleman — a gentleman with a bright breastplate, like 
what I hae seen langsyne, when we dwelt at Avenel” 

“ What like was he ? ” continued Tibb, who now took 
share in the investigation. 

“ Black-haired, black-eyed, with a peaked black beard,” 
said the child, “ and many a fold of pearling round his 
neck, and hanging down his breast ower his breastplate ; 
and he had a beautiful hawk, with silver bells, standing 
on his left hand, with a crimson silk hood upon its head ” 

“ Ask her no more questions, for the love of God," said 
the anxious menial to Elspeth, “ but look to my leddy ! ” 
But the Lady of Avenel, taking Mary in her hand, turned 
hastily away, and, walking into the hall, gave them no op- 
portunity of remarking in what manner she received the 
child’s communication, which she thus cut short. What 
Tibb thought of it appeared from her crossing herself re- 
peatedly, and wdiispering into Elspeth’s ear, “ Saint Mary 
preserve us ! — the lassie has seen her father ! ” 

When they reached the hall, they found the lady hold- 
ing her daughter on her knee, and kissing her repeatedly. 
When they entered, she again arose, as if to shun observa- 
tion, and retired to the little apartment where her child 
and she occupied the same bed. 

The boys were also sent to their cabin, and no one re- 
mained by the hall fire save the faithful Tibb and Dame 
Elspeth, excellent persons both, and as thorough gossips 
as ever wagged a tongue. 

It was but natural that they should instantly resume the 
subject of the supernatural appearance, for such they 
deemed it, which had this night alarmed the family. 

“ I could hae wished it had been the deil himself— be 
good to and preserve us ! — rather than Christie o’ the 
Clinthill,” said the matron of the mansion, “ for the word 
runs rife in the country, that he is ane of the maist mas- 
terfu’ thieves ever lap on horse.” 

“ Hout-tout, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb, “ fear ye naeth- 
ing frae Christie ; tods keep their ain holes clean. You 
kirk-folk make sic a fasherie about men shifting a wee bit 
for their living ! Our Border-lairds would ride with few 
men at their back, if a’ the light-handed lads Were out o’ 
gate.” 

“ Better they rade wi’ nane than distress the country- 
side the gate they do,” said Dame Elspeth. 

“ But wha is to haud back the Southron, then,” said 


THE MONASTERY. 


73 


Tibb, “ if ye take away the lances and broadswords ? I 
trow we auld wives couldna do that wi’ rock and wheel, 
and as little the monks wi’ bell and book.” 

“And sae weel as the lances and broadswords hae kept 
them back, I trow ! — I was mail* beholden to ae Southron, 
and that was Stawarth Bolton, than to a’ the border-riders 
ever wore Saint Andrew’s cross — I reckon their skelping 
back and forward, and lifting honest men’s gear, has been 
a main cause of a’ the breach between us and England, 
and I am sure that cost me a kind goodman. They spoke 
about the wedding of the Prince and our 0ueen, but it’s 
as like to be the driving of the Cumberland folk’s stock- 
ing that brought them down on us like dragons.” Tibb 
would not have failed in other circumstances to answer 
what she thought reflections disparaging to her country 
folk ; but she recollected that Dame Elspeth was mistress 
of the family, curbed her own zealous patriotism, and has- 
tened to change the subject, 

“And is it not strange,” she said, “that the heiress of 
Avenel should have seen her father this blessed night ? ” 

“ And ye think it was her father, then ? ” said Elspeth 
Glendinning. 

“What else can I think ?” said Tibb. 

“ It may hae been something waur in his likeness,” said 
Dame Glendinning. 

“ I ken naething about that,” said Tibb, — “but his like- 
ness it was, that I will be svvorn to, just as he used to ride 
out a-hawking ; for having enemies in the country, he sel- 
dom laid off the breastplate ; and for my part,” added 
Tibb, “ I dinna think a man looks like a man unless he 
has steel on his breast, and by his side, too.” 

“ I have no skill of your harness on breast or side 
either,” said Dame Glendinning; “but I ken there is 0 
little luck in Hallowe’en sights, for 1 have had ane my- 
sell.” 

“Indeed, Dame Elspeth?” said old Tibb, edging her 
stool closer to the huge elbow-chair occupied by her 
friend, “ I should like to hear about that.” 

“Ye maun ken, then, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, 

“ that when I was a hempie of nineteen or twenty, it 
wasna my fault if I wasna at a’ the merry-makings time 
about.” 

“That was very natural,” said Tibb; “but ye hae so- 
bered since that, or ye wadna haud our braw gallants sae 
lightly.” 


74 


THE MONASTERY. 


“I have had that wad sober me or ony ane,” said the 
matron. “Aweel, Tibb, a lass like me wasna to lack 
wooers, for I wasna sae ill-favored that the tikes wad bark 
after me.” 

“ How should that be,” said Tibb, “ and you sic a weel- 
favored woman to this day ? ” 

“ Fie, fie, cummer,” said the matron of Glendearg, hitch- 
ing her seat of honor, in her turn, a little nearer to the 
cuttie-stool on which Tibb was seated ; “ weel-favored is 
past my time of day ; but I might pass then, for I wasna 
sae tocherless but what I had a bit land at my breast- 
lace. My father was portioner of Little-dearg.” 

“ Ye hae tell’d me that before,” said Tibb ; “ but anent 
the Hallowe’en ? ” 

“Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favored 
nane o’ them ; and sae, at Hallowe’en, Father Nicolas the 
cellarer — he was cellarer before this father, Father Clem- 
ent, that now is — was cracking his nuts and drinking his 
brown beer with us, and as blithe as might be, and they 
would have me try a cantrip to ken wha suld wed me : and 
the monk said there was nae ill in it, and if there was, he 
would assoil me for it. And wha but I into the barn to 
winnow my three weights o’ naething — sair, sair my mind 
misgave me for fear of wrang-doing and wrang-suffering 
baith ; but I had aye a bauld spirit. I had not winnowed 
the last weight clean out, and the moon was shining bright 
upon the floor, whe7i in stalked the presence of my dear 
Simon Glendinning, that is now happy. I never saw him 
plainer in my life than I did that moment ; he held up an 
arrow as he passed me, and I swarf ’d awa wi ■flight. 
Muckle wark there was to bring me to mysell again, and 
sair they tried to make me believe it was a trick of Father 
^ Nicolas and Simon between them, and that the arrow was 
to signify Cupid’s shaft, as the Father called it ; and mony 
a time Simon wad threep it to me after I was married — 
glide man, he liked not it should be said that he was seen 
out o’ the body ! — But mark the end o’ it, Tibb ; we were 
married, and the gray-goose wing was the death o’ him 
after a’ ! ” 

“As it has been of ower mony brave men,” said Tibb ; 
“ I wish there wasna sic a bird as a goose, in the wide 
warld, forby the decking that we hae at the burn-side.” 

“But tell me, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, “what 
does your leddv aye do reading out o’ that thick black 
book wi’ the silver clasps ? — there are ower mony gude 


THE MONASTERY. 


7b 


words in it to come frae onybody but a priest — An it were 
about Robin Hood, or some o’ David Lindsay’s ballants, 
ane wad ken better what to say to it. I am no misdoubt- 
ing your mistress nae way, but I wad like ill to hae a de- 
cent house haunted wi’ ghaists and gyrecarlines.” 

“Ye hae nae reason to doubt my leddy, or ony thing she 
says or does, Dame Glendinning,” said the faithful Tibb, 
something offended; “and touching the bairn, it’s weel 
kend she was born on Hallowe’en, was nine years gane, and 
they that are born on Hallowe’en whiles see mair than 
ither folk.” 

“ And that wad be the cause, then, that the bairn didna 
mak muckle din about what it saw ? — if it had been my 
Halbert himself, forby Edward, who is of softer nature, he 
wad hae yammered the haill night of a constancy. But 
it’s like Mistress Mary has sic sights mair natural to her.” 

“That may wee 1 be,” said Tibb; “for on Hallowe’en 
she was born, as I tell ye, and our auld parish priest wad 
fain hae had the night ower, and All-Hallow day begun. 
But for a’ that, the sweet bairn is just like ither bairns, as 
ye may see yourself ; and except this blessed night, and 
ance before when we were in that weary bog on the road 
here, I kennathat it saw mair than ither folk.” 

“ But what saw she in the bog, then,” said Dame Glen- 
dinning, “ forby moor-cocks and heather bleaters ? ” 

“ The wean saw something like a white leddy that w T eised 
us the gate,” said Tibb ; “when we were like to hae per- 
ished in the moss-hags — certain it was that Shagram re- 
sisted, and I ken Martin thinks he saw something.” 

“And what might the white leddy be ? ” said Elspeth ; 
“ have ye ony guess o’ that ? ” 

“ It’s weel kend that, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb ; “if ye 
had lived under grit folk as I hae dune, ye wadna be to 
seek in that matter.” 

“ I hae aye keepit my ain ha’ house abune my head,” 
said Elspeth, not without emphasis, “and if I havena lived 
wi’ grit folk, grit folk have lived wi’ me.” 

“ Weel, weel, dame,” said Tibb, “ your pardon’s prayed, 
there was nae offence meant. But ye maun ken the great 
ancient families canna be just served wi’ the ordinary 
saunts (praise to them !) like Saunt Anthony, Saunt Cuth- 
bert, and the like, that come and gang at every sinner’s 
bidding, but they hae a sort of saunts or angels, or what 
not, to themsells ; and as for the White Maiden of Avenel, 
she is kend ower the haill country. And she is aye seen 


76 


THE MONASTERY. 


to yammer and wail before ony o’ that family dies, as was 
weel kend by twenty folk before the death of Walter Ave- 
nel, haly be his cast ! ” 

“ If she can do nae mair than that,” said Elspeth, some- 
what scornfully, “they needna make many vows to her, I 
trow. Can she make nae better fend for them than that, 
and has naething better to do than wait on them ? ” 

“ Mony braw services can the White Maiden do for them 
to the boot of that, and has dune in the auld histories,” 
said Tibb, “ but I mind ’o naething in my day, except it 
was her that the bairn saw in the bog.” 

“ Aweel, aweel, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, rising 
and lighting the iron lamp, “ these are great privileges of 
your grand folk. But Our Lady and Saunt Paul are good 
eneugh saunts for me, and I’se warrant them never leave 
me in a bog that they can help me out o’, seeing I 
send four waxen candles to their chapels every Candlemas ; 
and if they are not seen to weep at my death, I’se warrant 
them smile at my joyful rising again, whilk Heaven send 
to all of us, Amen.” 

“Amen,” answered Tibb, devoutly; “and now it’s time 
I should hap up the wee bit gathering turf, as the fire is 
ower low.” 

Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict 
of Simon Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a 
heedful and cautious glance all around the hall, to see that 
nothing was out of its proper place ; then, wishing Tibb 
good-night, she retired to repose. 

“The deil’s in the carline,” said Tibb to herself; “be- 
cause she was the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks herself 
grander, 1 trow, than the bowerwoman of a lady of that 
ilk ! ” Having given vent to her suppressed spleen in thi& 
little ejaculation, Tibb also betook herself to slumber. 


THE MONASTERY. 


77 


CHAPTER FIFTH. 

A priest, ye cry, a priest ! — lame shepherds they, 

How shall they gather in the straggling flock ? 

Dumb dogs which bark not — how shall they compel 
The loitering vagrants’ to the Master’s fold? 

Fitter to bask before the blazing fire, 

And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses, 

Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf. 

Reformation. 

The health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradually 
decaying ever since her disaster. It seemed as if the few 
years which followed her husband’s death had done on her 
the work of half a century. She lost the fresh elasticity 
of form, the color and the mien of health, and became 
wasted, wan, and feeble. She appeared to have no formed 
complaint ; yet it was evident to those who looked on her, 
that her strength waned daily. Her lips at length became 
blenched and her eye dim ; yet she spoke not of any desire 
to see a priest, until Elspeth Glendinning in her zeal could 
not refrain from touching upon a point which she deemed 
essential to salvation. Alice of Avenel received her hint 
kindly, and thanked her for it. 

“ If any good priest would take the trouble of such a 
journey,” she said, “he should be welcome ; for the pray- 
ers and lessons of the good must be at all times advan- 
tageous.” 

This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth 
Glendinning wished or expected. She made up, however, 
by her own enthusiasm, for the lady’s want of eagerness to 
avail herself of ghostly counsel, and Martin was despatched 
with such haste as Shagram would make, to pray one of 
the religious men of Saint Mary’s to come up to adminis- 
ter the last consolations to the widow of Walter Avenel. 

When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, 
that the Lady of the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in 
very weak health in the Tower of Glendearg, and desired 
the assistance of a father confessor, the lordly monk paused 
on the request. 

“We do remember Walter de Avenel,” he said ; “a good 
knight and a valiant ; he was dispossessed of his lands, and 
slain by the Southron — May not the lady come hither to 
the sacrament of confession ? the road is distant and pain- 
ful to travel.” 


78 


THE MONASTERY. 


“The lady is unwell, holy father,” answered the Sacris« 
tan, “ and unable to bear the journey.” 

“ True — ay — yes — then must one of our brethren go to 
her — Knowest thou if she hath aught of a jointure from 
this Walter de Avenel ?” 

“ Very little, holy father,” said the Sacristan ; “ she hath 
resided at Glendearg since her husband’s death, well-nigh 
on the charity of a poor widow, called Elspeth Glendin- 
ning.” 

“ Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country- 
side ! ” said the Abbot. “ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” and he shook his 
portly sides at his own jest. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” echoed the Sacristan, in the tone and 
tune in which an inferior applauds the jest of his superior. 
Then added, with a hypocritical snuffle, and a sly twinkle 
of his eye, “ It is our duty, most holy father, to comfort the 
widow — He ! he ! he ! ” 

This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot 
should put his sanction on the jest. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ” said the Abbot ; “ then, to leave jesting, 
Father Philip, take thou thy riding gear, and go to confess 
this Dame Avenel.” 

“ But,” said the Sacristan 

“ Give me no Buts ; neither But nor If pass between 
monk and Abbot, Father Philip ; the bands of discipline 
must not be relaxed — heresy gathers force like a snow-ball 
— the multitude expect confessions and preachings from 
the Benedictine, as they would from so many beggarly 
friars — and we may not desert the vineyard, though the 
toil be grievous unto us.” 

“And with so little advantage to the holy monastery,” 
said the Sacristan. 

“True, Father Philip ; but wot you riot that what pre- 
vented harm doth good ? This Julian de Avenel lives a 
light and evil life, and should we neglect the widow of his 
brother, he might foray our lands, and we never be able to 
show who hurt us — moreover it is our duty to an ancient 
family, who, in their day, have been benefactors to the 
Abbey. Away with thee instantly, brother; ride night and 
day, an it be necessary, and let men see how diligent Abbot 
Boniface and his faithful children are in the execution of 
their spiritual duty — toil not deterring them, for the glen 
is five miles in length — fear not withholding them, for it is 
said to be haunted of spectres — nothing moving them from 
pursuit of their spiritual calling ; to the confusion of cal- 


THE MONASTERY. 


79 


umnious heretics, and the comfort and edification of all 
true and faithful sons of the Catholic Church. I wonder 
what our brother Eustace will say to this ? ” 

Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil 
which he was to encounter, and the fame which he was to 
acquire (both by proxy), the Abbot moved slowly to finish 
his luncheon in the refectory, and the Sacristan, with no 
very good will, accompanied old Martin in his return to 
Glendearg ; the greatest impediment in the journe)', being 
the trouble of restraining his pampered mule, that she 
might tread in something like an equal pace with poor, 
jaded Shagram. 

After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, the 
monk returned moody and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, 
who had placed for the honored guest some refreshment in 
the hall, was struck with the embarrassment which appeared 
in his countenance. Elspeth watched him with great anx- 
iety. She observed there was that on his brow which 
rather resembled a person come from hearing the confes- 
sion of some enormous crime, than the look of a confessor 
who resigned a reconciled penitent, not to earth, but to 
heaven. After long hesitating, she could not at length re- 
frain from hazarding a question. She was sure, she said, 
the leddy had made an easy shrift. Five years had they 
resided together, and she could safely say, no woman lived 
better. 

“ Woman,” said the Sacristan, sternly, “thou speakest 
thou knowest not what — What avails clearing the outside of 
the platter, if the inside be foul with heresy ? ” 

“ Our dishes and trenchers are not so clean as they could 
be wished, holy father,” said Elspeth, but half understand- 
ing what he said, and beginning with her apron to wipe 
the dust from the plates, of which she supposed him to 
complain. 

“ Forbear, Dame Elspeth,” said the monk ; “ your plates 
are as clean as wooden trenchers and pewter flagons can 
well be; the foulness of which I speak is of that pestilen- 
tial heresy which is daily becoming ingrained in this our 
Holy Church of Scotland, and as a canker-worm in the 
rose-garland of the Spouse.” 

“ Holy Mother of Heaven ! ” said Dame Elspeth, cross- 
ing herself, “ have I kept house with a heretic ? ” 

“No, Elspeth, no,” replied the monk; “it were too 
strong a speech for me to make of this unhappy lady, but 
I would I could say she is free from heretical opinions. 


So 


THE MONASTERY. 


Alas ! they fly about like the pestilence by noon-day, and 
infect even the first and fairest of the flock ! For it is 
ettsy to see of this dame, that she hath been high in judg- 
ment as in rank.” 

“ And she can write and read, I had almost said, as weel 
as your reverence,” said Elspeth. 

“ Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read ? ” 
said the monk, eagerly. 

“Nay,” replied Elspeth, “I cannot say I ever saw her 
write at all, but her maiden that was — she now serves the 
family — says she can write — And for reading, she has often 
read to us good tilings out of a thick black volume with 
silver clasps.” 

“Let me see it,” said the monk, hastily, “on your al- 
legiance as a true vassal — on your faith as a Catholic 
Christian — instantly — instantly let me see it.” 

The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which 
the confessor took up her information; and being more- 
over of opinion, that what so good a woman as the Lady 
of Avenel studied so devoutly, could not be of a tendency 
actually evil. But borne down by the clamor, exclama- 
tions, and something like threats used by Father Philip, 
she at length brought him the fatal volume. It was easy 
to do this without suspicion on the part of the owner, as 
she lay on her bed exhausted with the fatigue of a long 
conference with her confessor, and as the small round, or 
turret closet, in which was the book and her other trifling 
property, was accessible by another door. Of all her 
effects, the book was the last she would have thought of 
securing, for of what use or interest could it be in a family 
who neither read themselves, nor were in the habit of see- 
ing any who did ? so that Dame Elspeth had no difficulty 
in possessing herself of the volume, although her heart all 
the while accused her of an ungenerous and an inhospit- 
able part toward her friend and inmate. The double 
power of a landlord and a feudal superior was before her 
eyes ; and to say truth, the boldness, with which she might 
otherwise have resisted this double authority, was, I grieve 
to say it, much qualified by the curiosity she entertained, 
as a daughter of Eve, to have some explanation respecting 
the mysterious volume which the lady cherished with so 
much care, yet whose contents she imparted with such 
caution. For never had Alice of Avenel read them any 
passage from the book in question until the iron door of 
the t@wer was locked, and all possibility of intrusion pre- 


THE MONA STER Y. 


Si 


vented. Even then, she had shown, by the selection of 
particular passages, that she was more anxious to impress 
on their minds the principles which the volume contained, 
than to introduce them to it as a new rule of faith. 

When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had placed 
the book in the monk’s hands, he exclaimed, after turning 
over the leaves, “ Now, by mine order, it is as I suspected ! 
— Mv mule, my mule ! — I will abide no longer here — well 
hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilous 
volume.” 

“Is it then witchcraft or devil’s work?” said Dame 
Elspeth, in great agitation. 

“Nay, God forbid!” said the monk, signing himself 
with the cross. “It is the Holy Scripture. But it is ren- 
dered into the vulgar tongue, and therefore, by the order 
of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to be in the hands of 
any lay person.” 

“And yet is the Holy Scripture communicated for our 
common salvation,” said Elspeth. “Good father, you 
must instruct mine ignorance better ; but lack of wit can- 
not be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor thinking, I 
should be glad to read the Holy Scripture.” 

“I dare say thou wouldst/’ said the monk; “and even 
thus did our mother Eve seek to have knowledge of good 
and evil, and thus Sin came into the world, and Death by 
Sin.” 

“ I am sure, and it is true,” said Elspeth. “ Oh, if she 
had dealt by the counsel of Saint Peter and Saint Paul ! ” 

“ If she had reverenced the command of Heaven,” said 
the monk, “which, as it gave her birth, life, and happiness, 
fixed upon the grant such conditions as best corresponded 
with its holy pleasure. I tell thee, Elspeth, the Word 
slayeth — that is, the text alone, read with unskilled eye and 
unhallowed lips, is like those strong medicines which sick 
men take by the advice of the learned. Such patients re- 
cover and thrive ; while those dealing in them, at their 
own hand, shall perish by their own deed.” 

“ Nae doubt, nae doubt,” said the poor woman, “your 
reverence knows best.” 

“Not I,” said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential as 
he thought could possibly become the Sacristan of Saint 
Mary’s, — “Not I, but the Holy Father of Christendom, 
and our own holy father the Lord Abbot, know best. I, 
the poor Sacristan of Saint Mary’s, can but repeat what I 
hear fr'om others my superiors. Yet of this, good woman, 
6 


82 


THE MONASTERY. 


be assured — the Word, the mere Word, slayeth. But the 
church hath her ministers to glose and to expound the 
same unto her faithful congregation ; and this I say, not so 
much, my beloved brethren — 1 mean my beloved sister” — 
(for the Sacristan had got into the end of one of his old 
sermons) — “This I speak not so much of the rectors, 
curates, and secular clergy, so called because they live 
after the fashion of the seculum or age, unbound by those 
ties which sequestrate us from the world ; neither do I 
speak this of the mendicant friars, 'whether black or gray, 
whether crossed or uncrossed ; but of the monks, and 
especially of the monks Benedictine, reformed on the rule 
of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, thence called Cistercian, of 
which monks, Christian brethren — sister, I would say — 
great is the happiness and glory of the country in possess- 
ing the holy ministers of Saint Mary’s, whereof I, though 
an unworthy brother, may say it hath produced more 
saints, more bishops, more popes — may our patrons make 
us thankful ! — than any holy foundation in Scotland. 
Wherefore But I see Martin hath my mule in readi- 

ness, and I will but salute you with the kiss of sisterhood, 
which maketh not ashamed, and so betake me to my toil- 
some return, for the glen is of bad reputation for the evil 
spirits which haunt it. Moreover, I may arrive too late at 
the bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take the river, 
which I observed to be somewhat waxen.” 

Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who 
was confounded by the rapidity of his utterance, and the 
doctrine he gave forth, and by no means easy on the sub- 
ject of the book, which her conscience told her she should 
not have communicated to any one, without the knowledge 
of its owner. 

Notwithstanding the haste which the monk, as well as 
his mule, made to return to better quarters than they had 
left at the head of Glendearg ; notwithstanding the eager 
desire Father Philip had to be the very first who should 
acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they most 
dreaded had been found within the Halidome, or patrimony 
of the Abbey ; notwithstanding, moreover, certain feelings 
which induced him to hurry as fast as possible through the 
gloomy and evil-reputed glen, still the difficulties of the 
road, and the rider’s want of habitude of quick motion, 
were such, that twilight came upon him ere he had nearly 
cleared the narrow valley. 

It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of the vale 


THE MONASTERY . 


83 


were so near, that at every double of the river the shadows 
from the western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the 
eastern bank ; the thickets of copsewood seemed to wave 
with a portentous agitation of boughs and leaves, and the 
very crags and scaurs seemed higher and grimmer than 
they had appeared to the monk while he was travelling in 
daylight, and in company. Father Philip was heartily re* 
joiced, when, emerging from the narrow glen, he gained 
the open valley of the Tweed, which held on its majestic 
course from current to pool, and from pool stretched away 
to other currents, with a dignity peculiar to itself amongst 
the Scottish rivers ; for whatever may have been the 
drought of the season, the Tweed usually fills up the space 
• between its banks, seldom leaving those extensive sheets 
of shingle which deform the margins of many of the cele- 
brated Scottish streams. 

The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not 
regarded as deserving of notice, was, nevertheless, like a 
prudent general, pleased to find himself out. of the narrow 
glen in which the enemy might have stolen upon him un- 
perceived. He drew up his bridle, reduced his mule to 
her natural and luxurious amble, instead of the agitating 
and broken trot at which, to his no small inconvenience, 
she had hitherto proceeded, and, wiping his brow, gazed 
forth at leisure on the broad moon, which, now mingling 
with the lights of evening, was rising over field and forest, 
village and fortalice, and, above all, over the stately Mon- 
astery, seen far and dim amid the yellow light. 

The worst part of the magnificent view, in the monk’s 
apprehension, was that the Monastery stood on the oppo- 
site side of the river, and that of the many fine bridges 
which have since been built across that classical stream, 
not one then existed. There wa's, however, in recom- 
pense, abridge then standing which has since disappeared, 
although its ruins may still be traced by the curious. 

It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments 
were built on either side of the river, at a part where the 
stream was peculiarly contracted. Upon a rock in the cen- 
tre of the current was built a solid piece of masonry, con- 
structed like the pier of a bridge, and presenting, like a 
pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The masonry 
continued solid until the pier rose to a level with the two 
abutments upon either side, and from thence the building 
rose in the form of a tower. The lower story of this 
tower consisted only of an archway or passage through the 


84 


THE MONASTERY. 


building, over either entrance to which hung a drawbridge 
with counterpoises, either of which, when dropped, con- 
nected the archway with the opposite abutment, where the 
farther end of the drawbridge rested. When both bridges 
were thus lowered, the passage over the river was com- 
plete. 

The bridge-keeper, who was the dependent of a neigh- 
boring baron, resided with his family in the second and 
third stories of the tower, which, when both drawbridges 
were raised, formed an insulated fortalice in the midst of 
the river. He was entitled to a small toll or custom for the 
passage, concerning the amount of which disputes some- 
times arose between him and the passengers. It is need- 
less to say, that the bridge-ward had usually the better in • 
these questions, since he could at pleasure detain the trav- 
eller on the opposite side ; or, suffering him to pass half- 
way, might keep him prisoner in his tower till they were 
agreed on the rate of pontage.* 

But it was most frequently with the monks of Saint 
Mary’s that the warder had to dispute his perquisites. 
These holy men insisted for, and at length obtained, a 
right of gratuitous passage to themselves, greatly to the 
discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they demanded 
the same immunity for the numerous pilgrims who visited 
the shrine, the bridge-keeper waxed restive, and was sup- 
ported by his lord in his resistance. The controversy grew 
animated on both sides ; the Abbot menaced excommuni- 
cation, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable to 
retaliate in kind, yet made each individual monk who had 
to cross and recross the river, endure a sort of purgatory, 
ere he would accommodate them with a passage. This 
was a great inconvenience, and would have proved a more 
serious one, but that the river was fordable for man and 
horse in ordinary weather. 

It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, 
when Father Philip approached this bridge, the singular 
construction of which gives a curious idea of the insecurity 
of the times. The river was not in flood, but it was above 
its ordinary level — a heavy 7vater, as it is called in that 
country, through which the monk had no particular incli- 
nation to ride, if he could manage the matter better. 

“ Peter, my good friend,” cried the Sacristan, raising his 
voice ; “ my very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to 


* Note •£. Drawbridge at Bridge-end. 


THE MONASTERY. • 85 

lower the drawbridge. Peter, I say, dost thou not hear ? — 
it is thy gossip, Father Philip, who calls thee.” 

Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the 
bargain ; but as he had considered the Sacristan as 
peculiarly his enemy in his dispute with the convent, 
he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the monk 
through his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that, “ riding 
the water in a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no 
harm, and would teach him the value of a brig the neist 
time, on whilk a man might pass high and dry, winter and 
summer, flood and ebb.” 

After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, 
which were equally unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as 
he was called, Father Philip at length moved down the 
river to take the ordinary ford at the head of the next 
stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he began, 
nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the 
river by the ford* was not only safe but pleasant. The 
banks and scattered trees were so beautifully reflected 
from the bosom of the dark stream, the whole cool and 
delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to his late 
agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain endeav- 
ors to move the relentless porter of the bridge, that the 
result was rather agreeable than otherwise. 

As Father Philip came close to the water’s edge, at the 
spot where he was to enter it, there sat a female under a 
large broken scathed oak-tree, or rather under the remains 
of such a tree, weeping, wringing her hands, and looking 
earnestly on the current of the river. The monk was 
struck with astonishment to see a female there at that time 
of night. But he was, in all honest service, — and if a step 
farther, I put it upon his own conscience, — a devoted squire 
of dames. After observing the maiden for a moment, al- 
though she seemed to take no notice of his presence, he 
was moved by her distress, and willing to offer his assist- 
ance. “Damsel,” said he, “thou seemest in no ordinary 
distress ; peradventure, like myself, thou hast been refused 
passage at the bridge by the churlish keeper, and thy 
crossing may concern thee, either for performance of a 
vow, or some other weighty charge.” 

The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at 
the river, and then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck 
Father Phfilip at that instant that a Highland Chief of dis- 
tinction had been for some time expected to pay his vows 
at the shrine of Saint Mary’s ; and that possibly this fair 


86 


THE MONASTERY. 


maiden might be one of his family, travelling alone for 
accomplishment of avow, or left behind by some accident, 
to whom, therefore, it would be but right and prudent to 
use every civility in his power, especially as she seemed 
unacquainted with the Lowland tongue. Such at least was 
the only motive the Sacristan was ever known to assign for 
his courtesy ; if there was any other, I once more refer it 
to his own conscience. 

To express himself by signs, the common language of all 
nations, the cautious Sacristan first pointed to the river, 
then to his mule’s crupper, and then made, as gracefully as 
he could, a sign to induce the fair solitary to mount be- 
hind him. She seemed to understand his meaning, for she 
rose up as if to accept his offer ; and while the good monk, 
who, as we have hinted, was no great cavalier, labored, 
with the pressure of the right leg and the use of the left 
rein, to place his mule with her side to the bank in such a 
position that the lady might mount with ease, she rose 
from the ground with rather portentous activity, and at one 
bound sat behind the monk upon the animal, much the 
firmer rider of the two. The mule by no means seemed to 
approve of this double burden ; she bounded, bolted, and 
would soon have thrown Father Philip over her head, had 
not the maiden with a firm hand detained him in the saddle. 

At length the restive brute changed her humor ; and, 
from refusing to budge off the spot, suddenly stretched 
her nose homeward, and dashed into the ford as fast as she 
could scamper. A new terror now invaded the monk’s 
mind — the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied 
off in strong ripple from the counter of the mule, and 
began to rise upon her side. Philip lost his presence of 
mind, which was at no time his most ready attribute, the 
mule yielded to the weight of the current, and as the rider 
was not attentive to keep her head turned up the river, 
she drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once, 
and began to swim with her head down the stream. And 
what was sufficiently strange, at the same moment, not- 
withstanding the extreme peril, the damsel began to sing, 
thereby increasing, if anything could increase, the bodily 
fear of the worthy Sacristan. 


i. 

Merrily swim we, the' moon shines bright, 

Both current and ripple are dancing in light. 

We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak, 
As we plashed along beneath the oak 


THE MONASTERY. 


87 


That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, 
Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. 
“Who wakens my nestlings,” the raven he said, 

‘ ‘ My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red ; 

For a blue swoln corpse is a dainty meal, 

And I’ll have my share with the pike and the eel.” 


II. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 

There’s a golden gleam on the distant height ; 
There’s a silver shower on the alders dank, 

And the drooping willows that wave on the bank. 
I see the abbey, both turret and tower, 

It is all astir for the vesper hour ; 

The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell, 
But where’s Father Philip, should toll the bell? 

III. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
Downward we drift through shadow and light, 
Under yon rock the eddies sleep, 

Calm and silent, dark and deep. 

The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool, 
He has lighted his candle of death and of dool : 
Look, Father, look, and you’ll laugh to see 
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee ! 


IV. 

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night ? 

A man of mean, or a man of might ? 

Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove, 

Or lover who crosses to visit his love ? 

Hark ! heard ye the Kelpy reply, as we pass’d, — 

“God’s blessing on the warder, he lock’d the bridge fast ! 
All that come to my cove are sunk, 

Priest or layman, lover or monk.” 


How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or 
where the terrified monk’s journey might have ended, is 
uncertain. As she sung the last stanza, they arrived at, or 
rather in, a broad tranquil sheet of water, caused by a 
strong wear or dam-head, running across the river, which 
dashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The mule, 
whether from choice, or influenced by the suction of the 
current, made toward the cut intended to supply the con- 
vent mills, and entered it half swimming half wading, and 
pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in the saddle at a 
fearful rate. 

As his person flew hither and thither, his garment be- 
came loose, and in an effort to retain it, his hand lighted 
on the volume of the Lady of Avenel which was in his 


88 


THE MONASTERY. 


bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than his companion 
pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where, still 
keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three 
good souses in the watery fluid, so as to insure that every 
other part of him had its share of wetting, and then quitted 
her hold when he was so near the side that by a slight ef- 
fort (of a great one he was incapable) he might scramble 
on shore. This accordingly he accomplished, and turning 
his eyes to see what had become of his extraordinary com- 
panion, she was nowhere to be seen ; but still he heard, as 
if from the surface of the river, and mixing with the noise 
of the water breaking over the dam-head, a fragment of her 
wild song, which seemed to run thus : — 

“ Landed — landed ! the black book hath won, 

Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun ! 

Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, 

For seldom they land that go swimming with me.” 

The ecstasy of the monk’s terror could be endured no 
longer ; his head grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few 
steps onward and running himself against a wall, he sunk 
down in a state of insensibility. 


CHAPTER SIXTH. 

Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds 
Be rooted from the vineyard of the church, 

That these foul tares be severed from the wheat, 

We are, I trust, agreed. — Yet how to do this, 

Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-plants, 

Craves good advisement. 

The Reformation. 

The vesper service in the Monastery Church of Saint 
Mary’s was now over. The Abbot had disrobed himself of 
his magnificent vestures of ceremony, and resumed his 
ordinary habit, which was a black gown, worn over a white 
cassock, with a narrow scapulary ; a decent and venerable 
dress, which was calculated to set off to advantage the 
portly mien of Abbot Boniface. 

In quiet times no one could have filled the state of a 
mitred Abbot, for such was his dignity, more respectably 
than this worthy prelate. He had, no doubt, many of those 
habits of self-indulgence which men are apt to acquire 


THE MONASTERY. 


89 


who live for themselves alone. He was vain, moreover ; 
and when boldly confronted, had sometimes shown symp- 
toms of timidity, not very consistent with the high claims 
which he preferred as an eminent member of the church, 
or with the punctual deference which he exacted from his 
religious brethren, and all who were placed under his com- 
mand. But he was hospitable, charitable, and by no means 
of himself disposed to proceed with severity against any 
one. In short, he would in other times have slumbered 
out his term of preferment with as much credit as an)> 
other “ purple Abbot,” who lived easily, but at the same 
time decorously — slept soundly, and did not disquiet him- 
self with dreams. 

But the wdde alarm spread through the whole Church of 
Rome by the progress of the reformed doctrines, sorely 
disturbed the repose of Abbot Boniface, and opened to 
him a wide field of duties and cares which he had never so 
much as dreamed of. There were opinions to be com- 
bated and refuted — -practices to be inquired into — heretics 
to be detected and punished — the fallen off to be reclaimed 
* — the wavering to be confirmed — scandal to be removed 
from the clergy, and the vigor of discipline to be re- 
established. Post upon post arrived at the Monastery of 
Saint Mary’s — horses reeking, and riders exhausted — this 
from the Privy Council, that from the Primate of Scotland, 
and this other again from the Queen Mother, exhorting, 
approving, condemning, requesting advice upon this sub- 
ject, and requiring information upon that. 

These missives Abbot Boniface received with an im- 
portant air of helplessness, ora helpless air of importance, 
whichever the reader may please to term it, evincing at 
once gratified vanity, and profound trouble of mind. 

The sharp-witted Primate of Saint Andrew’s had foreseen 
the deficiencies of the Abbot of Saint Mary’s, and endeav- 
ored to provide for them by getting admitted into his 
Monastery as Sub-Prior a brother Cistercian, a man of 
parts and knowledge, devoted to the service of the Catho- 
lic Church, and very capable not only to advise the Ab- 
bot on occasions of difficulty, but to make him sensible of 
his duty in case he should, from good-nature or timidity, 
be disposed to shrink from it. 

Father Eustace played the same part in the Monastery 
as the old general who, in foreign armies, is placed at the 
elbow of the Prince of the Blood, who nominally com- 
mands in chief, on condition of attempting nothing with- 


9 o 


THE MONASTERY. 


out the advice of his dry-nurse ; and he shared the fate of 
all such dry-nurses, being heartily disliked as well as 
feared by his principal. Still, however, the Primate’s in- 
tention was fully answered. Father Eustace became the 
constant theme and often the bugbear of the worthy Ab- 
bot, who hardly dared to turn himself in his bed without 
considering what Father Eustace would think of it. In 
every case of difficulty, Father Eustace was summoned, 
and his opinion asked ; and no sooner was the embarrass- 
ment removed, than the Abbot’s next thought was how 
to get rid of his adviser. In every letter which he wrote to 
those in power, he recommended Father Eustace to some 
high church preferment, a bishopric or an abbey, and as they 
dropped one after another, and were otherwise conferred, 
he began to think, as he confessed to the Sacristan in the 
bitterness of his spirit, that the Monastery of St. Mary’s 
had got a life-rent lease of their Sub- Prior. 

Yet more indignant he would have been, had he sus- 
pected that Father Eustace’s ambition was fixed upon his 
own mitre, which, from some attacks of an apoplectic 
nature, deemed by the Abbot’s friends to be more serious 
than by himself, it was supposed might be shortly vacant. 
But the confidence which, like other dignitaries, he re- 
posed in his own health, prevented Abbot Boniface from 
imagining that it held any concatenation with the motions 
of Father Eustace. 

The necessity under which he found himself of ^consult- 
ing with his grand adviser, in cases of real difficulty, ren- 
dered the worthy Abbot particularly desirous of doing 
without him in all ordinary cases of administration, though 
not without considering what Father Eustace would have 
said of the matter. He scorned, therefore, to give a hint 
to the Sub-Prior of the bold stroke by which he had des- 
patched Brother Philip to Glendearg ; but when the ves- 
pers came without his re-appearance he became a little 
uneasy, the more as other matters weighed upon his mind. 
The feud with the warder or keeper of the bridge threat- 
ened to be attended with bad consequences, as the man’s 
quarrel was taken up by the martial baron under whom 
he served ; and pressing letters of an unpleasant tendency 
had just arrived from the Primate. Like a gouty man, 
who catches hold of his crutch while he curses the infirm- 
ity that reduces him to use it, the Abbot, however reluc- 
tant, found himself obliged to require Eustace’s presence, 
after the service was over, in his house, or rather palace, 


THE MONASTERY. 


9 * 

which was attached to, and made part of, the Monas- 
tery. 

Abbot Boniface was seated in his high-backed chair, 
the grotesque carved back of which terminated in a mitre, 
before a fire where two or three large logs were reduced 
to one red glowing mass of charcoal. At his elbow, on an 
oaken stand, stood the remains of a roasted capon, on 
which his reverence had made his evening meal, flanked 
by a goodly stoup of Bordeaux of excellent, flavor. He 
was gazing indolently on the fire, partly engaged in med- 
itation on his past and present fortunes, partly occupied 
by endeavoring to trace towers and steeples in the red 
embers. 

“Yes,” thought the Abbot to himself, “in that red per- 
spective I could fancy to myself the peaceful towers of 
Dundrennan, where I passed my life ere I was called to 
pomp and to trouble. A quiet brotherhood we were, reg- 
ular in our domestic duties ; and when the frailties of hu- 
manity prevailed over us, we confessed, and were absolved 
by each other, and the most formidable part of the penance 
was the jest of the convent on the culprit. I can almost 
fancy that I see the cloister garden, and the pear-trees 
which I grafted with my own hands. And for what have 
I changed all this, but to be overwhelmed with business 
which concerns me not, to be called My Lord Abbot, and 
to be tutored by Father Eustace ? I would these towers 
were the Abbey of Aberbrothwick, and Father Eustace 
the Abbot, — or I would he were in the fire on any terms, 
so I were rid of him ! The Primate says our Holy Father 
the Pope hath an adviser — I am sure he could not live 
a week with such a one as mine. Then .there is no learn- 
ing what Father Eustace thinks till you confess your own 
difficulties — No hint will bring forth his opinion — he is 
like a miser, who will not unbuckle his purse to bestow 
a farthing, until the wretch who needs it has owned his 
excess of poverty, and wrung out the boon by impor- 
tunity. And thus I am dishonored in the eyes of my 
religious brethren, who behold me treated like a child 
which hath no sense of its own — I will bear it no lon- 
ger !— Brother Bennet ” — (a lay brother answered to his 
call) — “ tell Father Eustace that I need not his presence.” 

“ I came to say to your reverence, that the holy father is 
entering even now from the cloisters.” 

“Beit so,” said the Abbot, “he is welcome, — remove 
these things — or rather, place a trencher, the holy father 


92 


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may be a little hungry — yet, no — remove them, for there 
is no good fellowship in him — Let the stoup of wine re- 
main, however, and place another cup.” 

The lay brother obeyed these contradictory commands 
in the way he judged most seemly — he removed the car- 
cass of the half-sacked capon, and placed two goblets be- 
side the stoup of Bordeaux. At the same instant entered 
Father Eustace. 

He was a thin, sharp-faced, slight-made little man, whose 
keen gray eyes seemed almost to look through the person 
to whom he addressed himself. His body was emaciated 
not only with the fasts which he observed with rigid punc- 
tuality, but also by the active and unwearied exercise of 
his sharp and piercing intellect : — — 

. A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 

Fretted the puny body to decay, 

And o'er-inform’d the tenement of clay. 

He turned with conventual reverence to the Lord Ab- 
bot ; and as they stood together, it was scarce possible to 
see a more complete difference of form and expression. 
The good-natured rosy face and laughing eye of the Abbot, 
which even his present anxiety could not greatly ruffle, 
was a wonderful contrast to the thin pallid cheek and 
quick penetrating glance of the monk, in which an eager 
and keen spirit glanced through eyes to which it seemed 
to give supernatural lustre. 

The Abbot opened the conversation by motioning to his 
monk to take a stool, and inviting to a cup of wine. The 
courtesy was declined with respect, yet not without a re- 
mark, that the vesper service was past. 

“For the stomach’s sake, brother,” said the Abbot, col- 
oring a little — “You know the text.” 

“It is a dangerous one,” answered the monk, “to handle 
alone, or at late hours. Cut off from human society, the 
juice of the grape becomes a perilous companion of soli- 
tude, and therefore I ever shun it.” 

Abbot Boniface had poured himself out a goblet which 
might hold about half an English pint ; but, either struck 
with the truth of the observation, or ashamed to act in 
direct opposition to it, he suffered it to remain untasted 
before him, and immediately changed the subject. 

“The Primate hath written to us,” said he, “to make 
strict search within our bounds after the heretical persons 
denounced in this list, who have withdrawn themselves 


THE MONASTERY. 


93 


from the justice which their opinions deserve. It is deemed 
probable that they will attempt to retire to England by 
our Borders, and the Primate requireth me to watch with 
vigilance, and what not.” 

“Assuredly,” said the monk, “ the magistrate should not 
bear the sword in vain — those be they that turn the world 
upside down — and doubtless your reverend wisdom will 
with due diligence second the exertions of the Right Rev- 
erend Father in God, being in the peremptory defence of 
the Holy Church.” 

“Ay, but how is this to be done ? ” answered the Abbot ; 
“Saint Mary aid us! The Primate writes to me as if I 
were a temporal baron — a man under command, having 
soldiers under him ! He says, send forth — scour the country 
— guard the passes — Truly these men do not travel as those 
who would give their lives for nothing — the last who went 
south passed the dry-march at the Riding-burn with an 
escort of thirty spears, as our reverend brother the Abbot 
of Kelso did write unto us. How are cowls and scapu- 
laries to stop the way?” 

“Your Bailiff is accounted a good man at arms, holy 
father,” said Eustace ; “your vassals are obliged to rise for 
the defence of the Holy Kirk — it is the tenure on which 
they hold their lands — if they will not come forth for the 
Church w 7 hich gives them bread, let their possessions be 
given to others.” 

“We shall not be wanting,” said the Abbot, collecting 
himself with importance, “to do whatever may advantage 
Holy Kirk — thyself shall hear the charge to our Bailiff 
and our officials — but here again is our controversy with 
the warden of the bridge and the Baron of Meigallot — 
Saint Mary ! vexations do so multiply upon the House, 
and upon the generation, that a man wots not where to 
turn to ! Thou didst say, Father Eustace, thou w'ouldst 
look into our evidents touching this free passage for the 
pilgrims ? ” 

“ I have looked into the Chartulary of the House, holy 
father,” said Eustace, “and therein I find a written and 
formal grant of all duties and customs payable at the draw- 
bridge of Brigton, not only by ecclesiastics of this founda- 
tion, but by every pilgrim truly designed to accomplish 
his vows at this House, to the Abbot Ailford, and the 
Monks of the house of Saint Mary in Kennaquhair, from 
that time and forever. The deed is dated on Saint Bridget’s 
Even, in the year of Redemption 1137, and bears the sign 


94 


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and seal of the granter, Charles of Meigallot, great-great- 
grandfather of this baron, and purports to be granted for 
the safety of his own soul, and for the weal of the souls of 
his father and mother, and of all his predecessors and suc- 
cessors, being Barons of Meigallot.” 

“ But he alleges,” said the Abbot, “ that the bridge-wards 
have been in possession of these dues, and have rendered 
them available for more than fifty )^ears — and the baron 
threatens violence — meanwhile the journey of the pilgrims 
is interrupted, to the prejudice of their own souls and the 
diminution of the revenues of Saint Mary. The Sacristan 
advised us to put on a boat ; but the warden, whom thou 
knowest to be a godless man, has sworn the devil tear him, 
but that if they put on a boat on the laird’s stream, he will 
rive her board from board — and then some say we should 
compound the claim for a small sum in silver.” Here the 
Abbot paused a moment for a reply, but receiving none, 
he added, “ But what thinkest thou, Father Eustace ? why 
art thou silent ? ” 

“ Because I am surprised at the question which the Lord 
Abbot of Saint Mary’s asks at the youngest of his breth- 
ren.” 

“Youngest in time of your abode with us, Brother Eus- 
tace,” said the Abbot, “ not youngest in years, or I think 
in experience. Sub-Prior also of this convent.” 

“ I am astonished,” continued Eustace, “ that the Abbot 
of this venerable house should ask of any one whether he 
can alienate the patrimony of our holy and divine patron- 
ess, or give up to an unconscientious, and perhaps a heretic 
baron, the rights conferred on this church by his devout 
progenitor. Popes and councils alike prohibit it — the hon- 
or of the living, and the weal of departed souls, alike for- 
bid it— it may not be. To force, if he dare use it, we must 
surrender ; but never by our consent should we see the 
goods of the church plundered, with as little scruple as he 
would drive off a herd of English beeves. Rouse yourself, 
reverend father, and doubt nothing but that the good cause 
shall prevail. Whet the spiritual sword, and direct it 
against the wicked who would usurp our holy rights. 
Whet the temporal sword, if it be necessary, and stir up 
the courage and zeal of your loyal vassals.” 

The Abbot sighed deeply. “ All this,” he said, “ is soon 
spoken by him who hath to act it not ; but” 

He was interrupted by the entrance of Bennet rather 
hastily. “The mule on which the Sacristan had set out in 


THE MONASTERY. 


95 


the morning had returned,” he said, “ to the convent stable 
all over wet, and with the saddle turned round beneath her 
belly.” 

“ Sancta Maria ? ” said the Abbot, “our dear brother hath 
perished by the way ! ” 

“ It may not be,” said Eustace, hastily — “ let the bell be 
tolled — cause the brethren to get torches — alarm the vil- 
lage — hurry down to the river — I myself will be the fore- 
most.” 

The real Abbot stood astonished and agape, when at 
once he beheld his office filled, and saw all which he ought 
to have ordered, going forward at the dictates of the 
youngest monk in the convent. But ere the orders of 
Eustace, which nobody dreamed of disputing, were carried 
into execution, the necessity was prevented by the sudden 
apparition of the Sacristan, whose supposed danger excited 
all the alarm. 


CHAPTER SEVENTH. 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain, 

Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff 
Which weighs upon the heart. 

Macbeth. 

What betwixt cold and fright, the afflicted Sacristan 
stood before his Superior, propped on the friendly arm of 
the convent miller, drenched with water, and scarce able to 
utter a syllable. 

After various attempts to speak, the first words he ut- 
tered were — 

“Swim we merrily — the moon shines bright.” 

“ Swim we merrily ! ” retorted the Abbot, indignantly ; 
“a merry night have ye chosen for swimming, and a be- 
coming salutation to your Superior ! ” 

“ Our brother is bewildered,” said Eustace ; “ speak, 
Father Philip, how is it with you ? ” 

“Good luck to your fishing,” 

continued the Sacristan, making a most dolorous attempt 
at the tune of his strange companion. 


9 6 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Good luck to your fishing!” repeated the Abbot, still 
more surprised than displeased ; “ by my halidome he is 
drunken with wine, and comes to our presence with his 
jolly catches in his throat ! If bread and water can cure 
this folly ” 

“With your _pardon, venerable father,” said the Sub- 
Prior, “of water our brother has had enough; and me- 
thinks, the confusion of his eye is rather that of terror than 
of aught unbecoming his profession. Where did you find 
him, Hob Miller?” 

“ An it please your reverence, I did but go to shut the 
sluice of the mill — and as I was going to shut the sluice, I 
heard something groan near to me ; but judging it was one 
of Giles Fletcher’s hogs — for, so please you, he never shuts 
his gate — I caught up my lever, and was about — Saint Mary 
forgive me ! — to strike where I heard the sound, when, as 
the saints would have it, I heard the second groan just like 
that of a living man. So I called up my knaves, and found 
the Father Sacristan lying wet and senseless under the 
wall of our kiln. So soon as we brought him to himself a 
bit, he prayed to be brought to your reverence, but I doubt 
me his wits have gone a bell-wavering by the road. It was 
but now that he spoke in somewhat better form.” 

“ Well ! ” said Brother Eustace, “ thou hast done well, 
Hob Miller ; only begone now, and remember a second 
time to pause, ere you strike in the dark.” 

“ Please your reverence, it shall be a lesson to me,” said 
the miller, “ not to mistake a holy man for a hog again, so 
long as I live.” And, making a bow, with profound hu- 
mility, the miller withdrew. 

“And now that this churl is gone, Father Philip,” said 
Eustace, “ wilt thou tell our venerable Superior what ails 
thee ? art thou vino gravatus , man ? if so, we will have thee 
to thy cell.” 

“Water! water! not wine,” muttered the exhausted 
Sacristan. 

“ Nay,” said the monk, “ if that be thy complaint, wine 
may perhaps cure thee ; ” and he reached him a cup, 
which the patient drank off to his great benefit. 

“And now,” said the Abbot, “let his garments be 
changed, or rather let him be carried to the infirmary; for 
it will prejudice our health, should we hear his narrative 
while he stands there, steaming like a rising hoar-frost.” 

“I will hear his adventure,” said Eustace, “and report it 
to your reverence.” And, accordingly, he attended the 


THE MONASTERY. 


97 

Sacristan to his cell. In about half an hour he returned 
to the Abbot. 

“ How is it with Father Philip?” said the Abbot ; “and 
through what came he into such a state ? ” 

“He comes from Glendearg, reverend sir,” said Eustace; 
“ and for the rest, he telleth such a legend, as has not been 
heard in this Monastery for many a long day.” He then 
gave the Abbot the outlines of the Sacristan’s adventures 
in the homeward journey, and added, that for some time 
he was inclined to think his brain was infirm, seeing he 
had sung, laughed and wept all in the same breath. 

“ A wonderful thing it is to us,” said the Abbot, “ that 
Satan has been permitted to put forth his hand thus far on 
one of our sacred brethren ! ” 

“True,” said Father Eustace ; “ but for every text there 
is a paraphrase ; and I have my suspicions, that if the 
drenching of Father Philip cometh of the Evil One, yet it 
may not have been altogether without his own personal 
fault.” 

“ Flow ! ” said the Father Abbot ; “ I will not believe 
that thou makest doubt that Satan, in former days, hath 
been permitted to afflict saints and holy men, even as he 
afflicted the pious Job ? ” 

“ God forbid I should make question of it,” said the 
monk, crossing himself ; “yet, where there is an exposi- 
tion of the Sacristan’s tale, which is less than miraculous, 
I hold it safe to consider it at least, if not to abide by it. 
Now, this Hob the Miller hath a buxom daughter. Sup- 
pose — I say only suppose — that our Sacristan met her at 
the ford on her return from her uncle’s on the other side, 
for there she hath this evening been — suppose that, in cour- 
tesy, and to save her stripping hose and shoon, the Sacris- 
tan brought her across behind him— suppose he carried his 
familiarities farther than the maiden was willing to admit ; 
and we may easily suppose, farther, that this wetting was 
the result of it.” 

“ And this legend invented to deceive us ! ” said the Su- 
perior, reddening with wrath ; “ but most strictly shall it 
be sifted and inquired into ; it is not upon us that Father 
Philip must hope to pass the result of his own evil prac- 
tices for doings of Satan. To-morrow cite the wench to 
appear before us — we will examine, and we will punish.” 

“Under your reverence’s favor,” said Eustace, “that 
were but poor policy. As things now stand with us, the 
heretics catch hold of each flying report which tends to 

7 


9 8 


THE MONASTERY. 


the scandal of our clergy. We must abate the evil, not 
only by strengthening discipline, but also by suppressing 
and stifling the voice of scandal. If my conjectures are 
v true, the miller’s daughter will be silent for her own sake ; 
and your reverence’s authority may also impose silence on 
her father, and on the Sacristan. If he is again found to 
afford room for throwing dishonor on his order, he can be 
punished with severity, but at the same time with secrecy. 
For what say the Decretals ! Facinora ostendi dum punientur , 
flag it ia autem abscondi debent .” 

A sentence of Latin, as Eustace had before observed, 
had often much influence on the Abbot, because he under- 
stood it not fluently, and was ashamed to acknowledge his 
ignorance. On these terms they parted for the night. 

The next day Abbot Boniface strictly interrogated Philip 
on the real cause of his disaster of the previous night. 
But the Sacristan stood firm to his story ; nor was he found 
to vary from any point of it, although the answers he re- 
turned were in some degree incoherent, owing to his inter- 
mingling with them ever and anon snatches of the strange 
damsel’s song, which had made such deep impression on 
his imagination that he could not prevent himself from 
imitating it repeatedly in the course of his examination. 
The Abbot had compassion with the Sacristan’s involun- 
tary frailty, to which something supernatural seemed an- 
nexed, and finally became of opinion that Father Eustace’s 
more natural explanation was rather plausible than just. 
And, indeed, although we have recorded the adventure as 
we find it written down, we cannot forbear to add that 
there was a schism on the subject in the convent, and that 
several of the brethren pretended to have good reason for 
thinking that the miller’s black-eyed daughter was at the 
bottom of the affair after all. Whichever way it might be 
interpreted, all agreed that it had too ludicrous a sound to 
be permitted to get abroad, and therefore the Sacristan 
was charged, on his vow of obedience, to say no more of 
his ducking ; an injunction which, having once eased his 
mind by telling his story, it may be well conjectured that 
he joyfully obeyed. 

The attention of Father Eustace was much less forcibly 
arrested by the marvellous tale of the Sacristan's danger, 
and his escape, than by the mention of the volume which 
he had brought with him from the Tower of Glendearg. 
A copy of the Scriptures, translated into the vulgar tongue, 
had found its way even into the proper territory of the 


THE MONASTERY. 


99 


church, and had been discovered in one of the most hid- 
den and sequestered recesses of the Halidome of Saint 
Mary’s. 

He anxiously requested to see the volume. In this the 
Sacristan was unable to gratify him, for he had lost it, as 
far as he recollected, when the supernatural being, as he 
conceived her to be, took her departure from him. Father 
Eustace went down to the spot in person, and searched all 
around it, in hopes of recovering the volume in question ; 
but his labor was in vain. He returned to the Abbot, and 
reported that it must have fallen into the river or the mill- 
stream ; “for I will hardly believe,” he said, “that Father 
Philip’s musical friend would fly off with a copy of the 
Holy Scriptures.” 

“ Being,” said the Abbot, “as it is, an heretical transla- 
tion, it may be thought that Satan may have power over it.” 

“Ay !” said Father Eustace, “it is indeed his chiefest 
magazine of artillery, when he inspireth presumptuous 
and daring men to set forth their own opinions and ex- 
positions of Holy Writ. But though thus abused, the 
Scriptures are the source of our salvation, and are no 
more to be reckoned unholy, because of these rash men’s 
proceedings, than a powerful medicine is to be contemned, 
or held poisonous, because bold and evil leeches have em- 
ployed it to the prejudice of their patients. With the 
permission of your reverence, I would that this matter 
were looked into more closely. I will myself visit the 
Tower of Glendearg ere I am many hours older, and we 
shall see if any spectre or white woman of the wild will 
venture to interrupt my journey or return. Have I your 
reverend permission and your blessing ?” he added, but in 
a tone that appeared to set no great store by either. 

“ Thou hast both, my brother,” said the Abbot ; but no 
sooner had Eustace left the apartment, than Boniface could 
not help breaking on the willing ear of the Sacristan his 
sincere wish, that any spirit, black, white, or gray, would 
read the adviser such a lesson, as to cure him of his pre- 
sumption in esteeming himself wiser than the whole com- 
munity. 

“ I wish him no worse lesson,” said the Sacristan, “ than 
to go swimming merrily down the river with a ghost behind, 
and Kelpies, night-crows, and mud-eels, all waiting to have 
a snatch at him. 

‘ Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright ! 

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch you to-night ? ’ ” 


IOO 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, “we exhort thee to 
say thy prayers, compose thyself, and banish that foolish 
chant from thy mind ; — it is but a deception of the 
devil’s.” 

“ I will essay, reverend father,” said the Sacristan, “ but 
the tune hangs by my memory like a bur in a beggar’s rags ; 
it mingles with the psalter— the very bells of the convent 
seem to repeat the words, and jingle to the tune ; and were 
you to put me to death at this very moment, it is my belief 
I should die singing it — ‘Now swim we merrily’ — it is as 
it were a spell upon me.” 

He then again began to warble 

“Good luck to your fishing.” 


And checking himself in the strain with difficulty, he ex- 
claimed, “ It is too certain — I am but a lost priest ! Swim 
we merrily — I shall sing it at the very mass — Woe is me ! 
I shall sing all the remainder of my life, and yet never be 
able to change the tune!” 

The honest Abbot replied, “ he knew many a good fel- 
low in the same condition ; ” and concluded the remark 
with “ ho ! ho ! ho ! ” — for his reverence, as the reader may 
partly have observed, was one of those dull folks who love 
a quiet joke. 

The Sacristan, well acquainted with his Superior’s hu- 
mor, endeavored to join in the laugh, but his unfortunate 
canticle came again across his imagination, and interrupted 
the hilarity of his customary echo. 

“By the rood, Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, much 
moved, “you become altogether intolerable ! and I am con- 
vinced that such a spell could not subsist over a person of 
religion, and in a religious house, unless he were under mor- 
tal sin. Wherefore, say the seven penitential .psalms — make 
diligent use of thy scourge and hair-cloth — refrain for 
three days from all food, save bread and water — I myself 
will shrive thee, and we will see if this singing devil may 
be driven out of thee ; at least I think Father Eustace him- 
self could devise no better exorcism.” 

The Sacristan sighed deeply, but knew remonstrance 
was vain. He retired therefore to his cell, to try how far 
psalmody might be able to drive off the sounds of the syren 
tune which haunted his memory. 

Meanwhile, Father Eustace proceeded to the drawbridge, 
in his way to the lonely valley of Glendearg. In a brief 


THE MONASTERY. 


101 

conversation with the churlish warder, he had the address 
to render him more tractable in the controversy betwixt 
him and the convent. He reminded him that his father 
had been a vassal under the community ; that his brother 
was childless ; and that their possession would revert to 
the Church on his death, and might be either granted to 
himself, the warder, or to some greater favorite of the Ab- 
bot, as matters chanced to stand betwixt them at the time. 
The Sub-Prior suggested to him also, the necessary con- 
nection of interests betwixt the Monastery and the office 
which this man enjoyed. He listened with temper to his 
rude and churlish answers ; and by keeping his own in- 
terest firm pitched in his view, he had the satisfaction to 
find that Peter gradually softened hfs tone, and consented 
to let every pilgrim who travelled upon foot pass free of 
exaction until Pentecost next ; they who travelled on horse- 
back or otherwise, contenting to pay the ordinary custom. 
Having thus accommodated a matter in which the weal 
of the convent was so deeply interested, Father Eustace 
proceeded on his journey. 


CHAPTER EIGHTH. 

Nay, dally not with time, the wise man’s treasure, 

Though fools are lavish on’t — the fatal Fisher 
Hooks souls, while we waste moments. 

Old Play. 

A November mist overspread the little valley, up which 
slowly but steadily rode the Monk Eustace. He was not 
insensible to the feeling of melancholy inspired by the 
scene and by the season. The stream seemed to murmur 
with a deep and oppressed note, as if bewailing the de- 
parture of autumn. Among the scattered copses which 
here and there fringed its banks, the oak-trees only re- 
tained the pallid green that precedes their russet hue. 
The leaves of the willows were most of them stripped from 
the branches, lay rustling at each breath, and disturbed by 
every step of the mule ; while the foliage of other trees, 
totally withered, kept still precarious possession of the 
boughs, waiting the first wind to scatter them. 

The monk dropped into the natural train of pensive 
thought which these autumnal emblems of mortal hopes 
are peculiarly calculated to inspire. “There,” he said, 


102 


THE MONASTERY, 


looking at the leaves which lay strewed around, “lie the 
hopes of early youth, first formed that they may soonest 
wither, and lovliest in spring to become most contemptible 
in winter ; but you, ye lingerers,” he added, looking to a 
knot of beeches which still bore their withered leaves, 
“you are the proud plans of adventurous manhood, formed 
later, and still clinging to the mind of age, although it ac- 
knowledges their inanity ! None lasts — none endures, 
save the foliage of the hardy oak, which only begins to 
show itself when that of the rest of the forest has enjoyed 
half its existence. A pale and decayed hue is all it pos- 
sesses, but still it retains that symptom of vitality to the last. 
So be it with Father Eustace ! The fairy hopes of my 
youth I have trodden Under foot like those neglected rust- 
lers — to the prouder dreams of my manhood I look back as 
to lofty chimeras, of which the pith and essence have long 
since faded ; but my religious vows, the faithful profession 
which I have made in my maturer age, shall retain life 
while aught of Eustace lives. Dangerous it may be- — 
feeble it must be — yet live it shall, the proud determina- 
tion to serve the church of which I am a member, and to 
combat the heresies by which she is assailed.” Thus spoke, 
at least thus thought, a man zealous according to his im- 
perfect knowledge, confounding the vital interests of 
Christianity with the extravagant and usurped claims of 
the Church of Rome, and defending his cause with an 
ardor worthy of a better. 

While moving onward in this contemplative mood, he 
could not help thinking more than once, that he saw in 
his path the form of a female dressed in white, who ap- 
peared in the attitude of lamentation. But the impression 
was only momentary ; and whenever he looked steadily to 
the point where he conceived the figure appeared, it al- 
ways proved that he had mistaken some natural object, a 
white crag, or the trunk of a decayed birch-tree with its 
silver bark, for the appearance in question. 

Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to partake 
the superstitious feelings of the more ignorant Scottish 
clergy ; yet he certainly thought it extraordinary, that so 
strong an impression should have been made on his mind 
by the legend of the Sacristan. “ It is strange,” he said to 
himself, “ that this story, which doubtless was the inven- 
tion of Brother Philip to cover his own impropriety of 
conduct, should run so much in my head, and disturb my 
more serious thoughts — I am wont, I think, to have more 


THE MONASTERY. 


103 


command over my senses. I will repeat my prayers, and 
banish such folly from my recollection.” 

The monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his 
beads, in pursuance of the prescribed rule of his order, and 
was not again disturbed by any wanderings of the imagina- 
tion, until he found himself beneath the iittle fortalice of 
Glendearg. 

Dame Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a shout 
of surprise and joy, at seeing the good father. “ Martin,” 
she said, “Jasper, where be a’ the folk? — help the right 
reverend Sub-Prior to dismount, and take his mule from 
him. O father ! God has sent you in our need — I was just 
going to send man and horse to the convent, though I 
ought to be ashamed to give so much trouble to your rev- 
erences.” 

“ Our trouble matters not, good dame,” said Father Eus- 
tace ; “ in what can I pleasure you ? I came hither to visit 
the Lady of Avenel.” 

“ Well-a-day ! ” said Dame Elspeth, “ and it was on her 
part that I had the boldness to think of summoning you, 
for the good lady will never be able to wear over the day ! 
Would it please you to go to her chamber ?” 

“Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip?” said 
the monk. 

“Shriven she was,” said the Dame of Glendearg, “and 
by Father Philip, as your reverence truly says — but — I wish 
it may have been a clean shrift — Methought Father Philip 
looked but moody upon it — and there was a book which 
he took away with him, that ” She paused, as if un- 

willing to proceed. 

“Speak out, Dame Glendinning,” said the Father; 
“with us it is your duty to have no secrets.” 

“ Nay, if it please your reverence, it is not that I would 
keep anything from your reverence’s knowledge, but I fear 
I should prejudice the lady in your opinion ; for she is an 
excellent lady — months and years hath she dwelt in this 
tower, and none more exemplary than she ; but this mat- 
ter, doubtless, she will explain it herself to your reverence.” 

“ I desire first to know it from you, Dame Glendinning,” 
said the monk ; “and I again repeat, it is your duty to tell 
it to me.” 

“ This book, if it please your reverence, which Father 
Philip removed from Glendearg, was this morning re- 
turned to us in a strange manner,” said the good widow. 

“ Returned! ” said the monk ; “ how mean you ? ” 


104 


THE MONASTERY. 


“I mean,” answered Dame Glendinning. “that it was 
brought back to the Tower of Glendearg, the saints best 
know how— that same book which Father Philip carried 
with him but yesterday. Old Martin, that is my tasker 
and the lady’s servant, was driving out the cows to the 
pasture — for we have three good milk-cows, reverend 
father, blessed be Saint Waldave, and thanks to the holy 
Monastery ” 

The monk groaned with impatience ; but he remembered 
that a woman of the good dame’s condition was like a top, 
which, if you let it spin on untouched, must at last come to 
a pause ; but, if you interrupt it by flogging, there is no 
end to its gyrations. “ But, to speak no more of the cows, 
your reverence, though they are likely cattle as ever were 
tied to a stake, the tasker was driving them out, and the 
lads, that is my Halbert and my Edward, that your rever- 
ence has seen at church on holidays, and especially Hal- 
bert, — for you patted him on the head and gave him a 
brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which he wears in his bonnet, 

■ — and little Mary Avenel, that is the lady’s daughter, they 
ran all after the cattle, and began to play up and down the 
pasture as young folk will, your reverence. And at length 
they lost sight of Martin and the cows ; and they began to 
run up a little cleugh which we call Corri-nan-Shian , where 
there is a wee bit stripe of a burn, and they .saw there — 
Good guide us ! — a White Woman sitting on the burn-side 
wringing her hands — so the bairns were frighted to see a 
strange woman sitting there, all but Halbert, who will be 
sixteen come Whitsuntide ; and, besides, he never feared 
onything — and when they went up to her — behold she was 
passed away ! ” 

“ For shame, good woman ! ” said Father Eustace ; “ a 
woman of your sense to listen to a tale so idle ! — the young 
folk told you a lie, and that was all.” 

“ Nay, sir, it was more than that,” said the old dame ; 
“for, besides that they never told me a lie in their lives, I 
must warn you that on the very ground where the White 
Woman was sitting, they found the Lady of Avenel’s book, 
and brought it with them to the tower.” 

“That is worthy of mark at least,” said the monk. “Know 
you no other copy of this volume within these bounds ?” 

“ None, your reverence,” returned Elspeth ; “ why should 
there ? — no one could read it were there twenty.” 

“ Then you are sure it is the very same volume which 
you gave to Father Philip ?” said the monk. 


THE MONASTERY. 


*°5 

“ As sure as that I now speak with your reverence.” 

“ It is most singular ! ” said the monk ; and he walked 
across the room in a musing posture. 

“ I have been upon nettles to hear what your reverence 
would say,” continued Dame Glendinning, “ respecting 
this matter — There is nothing I would not do for the Lady 
of Avenel and her family, and that has been proved, and 
for her servants to boot, both Martin and Tibb, although 
Tibb is not so civil sometimes as altogether I have a right 
to expect ; but I cannot think it beseeming to have angels, 
or ghosts, or fairies, or the like, waiting upon a leddy when 
she is in another woman’s house, in respect it is no ways 
creditable. Onything she had to do was always done to 
her hand, without costing her either pains or pence, as a 
country body says ; and besides the discredit, I cannot but 
think that there is no safety in having such unchancy 
creatures about ane. But I have tied red thread round 
the bairns’ throats ” (so her fondness still called them), 
“and given ilk ane of them a riding-wand of row^n-tree, 
forby sewing up a slip of witch-elm into their doublets ; 
and I wish to know of your reverence if there be onything 
mair that a lone woman can do in the matter oftghosts and 
fairies ? — Be here ! that I should have named their unlucky 
names twice ower ! ” 

“ Dame Glendinning,” answered the monk, somewhat 
abruptly, when the good woman had finished her narra- 
tive, “ I pray you, do you know the miller’s daughter ?” 

“ Did I know Kate Happer?” replied the widow ; “as 
well as the beggar knows his dish — a canty quean was 
Kate, and a special cummer of myain maybe twenty years 
syne.” 

“She cannot be the wench I mean,” said Father Eus- 
tace. “ She after whom I inquire is scarce fifteen, a black- 
eyed girl — you may have seen her at the kirk.” 

“Your reverence must be in the right; and she is my 
cummer’s niece, doubtless, that you are pleased to speak 
of : But I thank God I have always been too duteous in 
attention to the mass, to know whether young wenches 
have black eyes or green ones.” 

The good father had so much of the world about him, 
that he was unable to avoid smiling, when the dame 
boasted her absolute resistance to a temptation, which was 
not quite so liable to beset her as those of the other sex. 

“ Perhaps, then,” he said, “you know her usual dress, 
Dame Glendinning?” 


io6 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Ay, ay, father,” answered the dame readily enough, 
“ a white kirtle the wench wears, to hide the dust of the 
mill no doubt — and a blue hood, that might weel be 
spared, for pridefulness.” 

“Then, may it not be she,” said the father, “who has 
brought back this book, and stepped out of the way when 
the children came near her ?” 

The dame paused — was unwilling to combat the solu- 
tion suggested by the monk — but was at a loss to conceive 
why the lass of the mill should come so far from home 
into so wild a corner, merely to leave an old book with 
three children, from whose observation she wished to con- 
ceal herself. Above all, she could not understand why, 
since she had acquaintances in the family, and since the 
Dame Glendinning had always paid her multure and 
knaveship duly, the said lass of the mill had not come in 
to rest herself and eat a morsel, and tell her the current 
news of the water. 

These very objections satisfied the monk that his con- 
jectures were right. “Dame,” he said, “you must be 
cautious in what you say. This is an instance — I would it 
were the s*)le one — of the power of the Enemy in these 
days. The matter must be sifted with a curious and care- 
ful hand.” 

“Indeed,” said Elspeth, trying to catch and chime in 
with the ideas of the Sub-Prior, “ I have often thought the 
miller’s folk at the Monastery-mill were far over careless in 
sifting our melder, and in bolting it too — some folk say 
they will not stick at whiles to put in a handful of ashes 
amongst Christian folk’s corn-meal.” 

“That shall be looked after also, dame,” said the Sub- 
Prior, not displeased to see that the good old woman went 
off on a false scent ; “and now, by your leave, I will see 
this lady — do you go before and prepare her to see me.” 

Dame Glendinning left the lower apartment, accord- 
ingly, which the monk paced in anxious reflection, con- 
sidering how he might best discharge, with humanity as 
well as with effect, the important duty imposed on him. 
He resolved to approach the bedside of the sick person 
with reprimands, mitigated only by a feeling for her weak 
condition — he determined, in case of her reply, to which 
late examples of hardened heretics might encourage her, 
to be prepared with answers to their customary scruples. 
High fraught, also, with zeal against her unauthorized in- 
trusion into the priestly function, by study of the Sacred 


THE MONASTERY. 


107 


Scriptures, he imagined to himself the answers which one 
of the modern school of heresy might return to him — the 
victorious refutation which should lay the disputant pros- 
trate at the Confessor’s mercy — and the healing, yet awful 
exhortation, which, under pain of refusing the last conso- 
lations of religion, he designed to make to the penitent, 
conjuring her, as she loved her own soul’s welfare, to dis- 
close to him what she knew of the dark mystery of iniquity, 
by which heresies were introduced into the most secluded 
spots of the very patrimony of the Church herself — what 
agents they had who could thus glide, as it were unseen, 
from place to place, bring back the volume which the 
Church had interdicted to the spots from which it had 
been removed under her express auspices ; and who, by 
encouraging the daring and profane thirst after knowledge 
forbidden and useless to the laity, had encouraged the 
fisher of souls to use with effect his old bait of ambition 
and vain-glory. 

Much of this premeditated disputation escaped the good 
father, when Elspeth returned, her tears flowing faster 
than her apron could dry them, and made him a signal to 
follow her. “ How,” said the monk, “ is she then so near 
her end ? — nay, the Church must not break or bruise, 
when comfort is yet possible and forgetting his polem- 
ics, the good Sub-Prior hastened to the little apartment, 
where, on the wretched bed which she had occupied since 
her misfortunes had driven her to the Tower of Glen- 
dearg, the widow of Walter Avenel had rendered up her 
spirit to her Creator. “ My God ! ” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ and has my unfortunate dallying suffered her to depart 
without the Church’s consolation ! Look to her, dame,” 
he exclaimed with eager impatience ; “ is there not yet a 
sparkle of the life left ? — may she not be recalled — recalled 
but for a moment ? — Oh! would that she could express, 
but by the most imperfect word — but by the most feeble 
motion, her acquiescence in the needful task of peniten- 
tial prayer ? — Does she not breathe ! — Art thou sure she 
doth not ? ” 

“ She will never breathe more,” said the matron. “ Oh ! 
the poor fatherless girl — now motherless also — Oh, the 
kind companion I have had these many years, whom I 
shall never see again ! But she is in heaven for certain, if 
ever woman went there ; for a woman of better life” 

“ Woe to me,” said the good monk, “if, indeed, she went 
not hence in good assurance — woe to the reckless shep' 


io8 


THE MONASTERY. 


herd, who suffered the wolf to carry a choice one from the 
flock, while he busied himself with trimming his sling and 
his staff to give the monster battle ! Oh ! if in the long 
Hereafter, aught but weal should that poor spirit share, 
what has my delay cost ? — the value of an immortal soul ! ” 

He then approached the body, full of the deep remorse 
natural to a good man of his persuasion, who devoutly be- 
lieved the doctrines of the Catholic Church. “ Ay,” said 
he, gazing on the pallid corpse, from which the spirit had 
parted so placidly as to leave a smile upon the thin blue 
lips, which had been so long wasted by decay that they 
had parted with the last breath of animation without the 
slightest convulsive tremor — “Ay,” said Father Eustace, 
“there lies the faded tree, and, as it fell, so it lies — awful 
thought for me, should my neglecf have left it to descend 
in an evil direction !” He then again and again conjured 
Dame Glendinning to tell him what she knew of the de- 
meanor and ordinary walk of the deceased. 

All tended to the high honor of the deceased lady ; for 
her companion, who admired her sufficiently while alive, 
notwithstanding some trifling points of jealousy, now idol- 
ized her after her death, and could think of no attribute 
of praise with which she did not adorn her memory. 

Indeed, the Lady of Avenel, however she might pri- 
vately doubt some of the doctrines announced by the 
Church of Rome, and although she had probably tacitly 
appealed from that corrupted system of Christianity to the 
volume on which Christianity itself is founded, had never- 
theless been regular in her attendance on the worship of 
the Church, not, perhaps, extending her scruples so far as 
to break off communion. Such indeed was the first senti- 
ment of the earlier reformers, who seemed to have studied, 
for a time at least, to avoid a schism, until the violence of 
the Pope rendered it inevitable. 

Father Eustace, on the present occasion, listened with 
eagerness to everything which could lead to assure him of 
the lady’s orthodoxy in the main points of belief ; for his 
conscience reproached him sorely, that, instead of pro- 
tracting conversation with the Dame of Glendearg, he had 
not instantly hastened where his presence was so neces- 
sary. “ If,” he said, addressing the dead body, “ thou art 
yet free from the utmost penalty due to the followers of 
false doctrine — if thou dost but suffer for a time, to expi- 
ate faults done in the body, but partaking of mortal frailty 
more than of deadly sin, fear not that thy abode shall be 


THE MONASTERY. 


109 


long in the penal regions to which thou mayestbe doomed 
— if vigils — if masses — if penance — if maceration of my 
body, till it resembles that extenuated form which the 
soul hath abandoned, may assure thy deliverance. The 
Holy Church — the godly foundation — our blessed Patron- 
ess herself, shall intercede for one whose errors were 
counterbalanced by so many virtues. Leave me, dame — 
here, and by her bedside, will I perform those duties 
which this piteous case demands ! ” 

Elspeth left the monk, who employed himself in fervent 
and sincere, though erroneous prayers, for the weal of the 
departed spirit. For an hoilr he remained in the apart- 
ment of death, and then returned to the hall, where he 
found the still weeping friend of the deceased. 

But it would be injustice to Mrs. Glendinning’s hospi- 
tality, if we suppose her to have been weeping during this 
long interval, or rather if w r e suppose her so entirely ab- 
sorbed by the tribute of sorrow which she paid frankly 
and plentifully to her deceased friend, as to be incapable 
of attending to the rights of hospitality due to the holy 
visitor — who was confessor at once, and Sub-Prior — • 
mighty in all religious and secular considerations, so far 
as the vassals of the Monastery were interested. 

Her barley-bread had been toasted — her choicest cask 
of home-brewed ale had been broached — her best butter 
had been placed on the hall table, along w ith her most 
savory ham, and her choicest cheese, ere she abandoned 
herself to the extremity of sorrow ; and it was not till she 
had arranged her little repast neatly on the board, that she 
sat down in the chimney-corner, threw her checked apron 
over her head, and gave way to the current of tears and 
sobs. In this there w 7 as no grimace or affectation. The 
good dame held the honors of her house to be as essential 
a duty, especially when a monk was her visitant, as any 
other pressing call upon her conscience ; nor until these 
w r ere suitably attended to did she find herself at liberty to 
indulge her sorrow for her departed friend. 

When she was conscious of the Sub- Prior’s presence, 
she rose with the same attention to his reception ; but he 
declined all the offers of hospitality w 7 ith which she en- 
deavored to tempt him. Not her butter, as yellow as 
gold, and the best, she assured him, that was made in the 
patrimony of Saint Mary — not the barley scones, which 
“ the departed saint, God sain her ! used to say w r ere so 
good ” — not the ale, nor any other cates which poor Els- 


no 


THE MONASTERY. 


peth’s stores afforded, could prevail on the Sub-Prior to 
break his fast. 

“This day,” he said, “I must not taste food until the 
sun go down, happy if, in so doing, I can expiate my own 
negligence — happier still, if my sufferings of this trilling 
nature, undertaken in pure faith and singleness of heart, 
may benefit the soul of the deceased. Yet, dame,” he 
added, “ I may not so far forget the living in my cares for 
the dead, as to leave behind me that book, which is to the 
ignorant what, to our first parents, the tree of Knowledge 
of Good and Evil unhappily proved — excellent indeed in 
itself, but fatal because used by those to whom it is pro- 
hibited.” 

“ Oh, blithely, reverend father,” said the widow of Simon 
Glendinning, “will I give you the book, if so be I can 
while it from the bairns ; and, indeed, poor things, as the 
case stands with them even now, you might take the heart 
out of their bodies, and they never find it out, they are sae 
begrutten.”* 

“ Give them this missal instead, good dame,” said the 
father, drawing from his pocket one which was curiously 
illuminated with paintings, “and I will come myself, or 
send one at a fitting time, and teach them the meaning of 
these pictures.” 

“The bonny images !” said Dame Glendinning, forget- 
ting for an instant her grief in her admiration, “ and weel 
I wot,” added she, “ it is another sort of a book than the 
poor Lady of Avenel’s ; and blessed might we have been 
this day, if your reverence had found the way up the glen, 
instead of Father Philip, though the Sacristan is a power- 
ful man too, and speaks as if he would ger the house fly 
abroad, save that the walls are gey thick. Simon’s for- 
bears (may he and they be blessed ! ) took care of that.” 

The monk ordered his mule, and was about to take his 
leave ; and the good dame was still delaying him with 
questions about the funeral, when a horseman, armed and 
accoutred, rode into the little courtyard which surrounded 
the Keep. 


Begrutten — over-wept. 


THE MONASTERY. 


1H 


CHAPTER NINTH. 

For since they rode among our doors 
With splent on spauld and rusty spurs, 

There grows no fruit into our furs ; 

Thus said John Up-on-land. 

Bannatyne MS. 

The Scottish laws, which were as wisely and judiciously 
made as they were carelessly and ineffectually executed, 
had in vain endeavored to restrain the damage done to ag- 
riculture, by the chiefs and landed proprietors retaining in 
their service what were called jack-men, from the jack, or 
doublet quilted with iron, which they wore as defensive 
armor. These military retainers conducted themselves 
with great insolence toward the industrious part of the 
community — lived in a great measure by plunder, and 
were ready to execute any commands of their master, how- 
ever unlawful. In adopting this mode of life, men resigned 
the quiet hopes and regular labors of industry, for an un- 
settled, precarious, and dangerous trade, which yet had 
such charms for those once accustomed to it, that they 
became incapable of following any other. Hence the com- 
plaint of John Upland, a fictitious character, representing 
a countryman, into whose mouth the poets of the day put 
their general satires upon men and manners. 

They ride about in such a rage, 

By forest, firth, and field, 

With buckler, bow, and brand.~ 

Lo ! where they ride out through the rye ! 

The Devil mot sane the company, 

Quoth John Up-on-land. 

Christie of the Clinthill, the horseman who now arrived 
at the little Tower of Glendearg, was one of the hopeful 
company of whom the poet complains, as was indicated 
by his “ splent on spauld ” (iron plates on his shoulder), 
his rusted spurs, and his long lance. An iron skull-cap, 
none of the brightest, bore for distinction a sprig of the 
holly, which was Avenel’s badge. A long two-edged 
straight sword, having a handle made of polished oak, 
hung down by his side. The meagre condition of his 
horse, and the wild and emaciated look of the rider, 
showed their occupation could not be accounted an easy 


1 12 


THE MONASTERY. 


or a thriving one. He saluted Dame Glendinning with 
little courtesy, and the monk with less; for the growing 
disrespect to the religious orders had not failed to extend 
itself among a class of men of such disorderly habits, 
although it may be supposed they were tolerably indiffer- 
ent alike to the new or the ancient doctrines. 

“ So, our lady is dead, Dame Glendinning?” said the 
jack-man ; “ my master has sent you even now a fat bul- 
lock for her mart — it may serve for her funeral. I have left 
him in the upper cleugh, as he is somewhat kenspeckle,* 
and is marked both with cut and birn — the sooner the skin 
is off, and he is in sautfat, the less like you are to have 
trouble — you understand me ? Let me have a peck of 
corn for my horse, and beef and beer for myself, for I 
must go on to the Monastery — though I think this monk 
here might do mine errand.” 

“Thine errand, rude man ! ” said the Sub-Prior, knitting 
his brows 

“For God’s sake !” cried poor Dame Glendinning, ter- 
rified at the idea of a quarrel between them, — “ O Christie ! 
it is the Sub-Prior — O reverend sir, it is Christie of the 
Clinthill, the laird’s chief jack-man ; ye know that little 
havings can be expected from the like o’ them.” 

“Are you a retainer of the Laird of Avenel ? ” said the 
monk, addressing himself to the horseman, “and do you 
speak thus rudely to a brother of Saint Mary’s, to whom 
thy master is so much beholden ?” 

“ He means to be yet more beholden to your house, Sir 
Monk,” answered the fellow ; “ for hearing his sister-in- 
law, the widow of Walter of Avenel, was on her death-bed, 
he sent me to say to the Father Abbot and the brethren, 
that he will hold the funeral-feast at their convent, and 
invites himself thereto, with a score of horse and some 
friends, and to abide there for three days and three nights, 
having horse-meat and men’s meat at the charge of the 
community ; of which his intention he sends due notice, 
that fitting preparation may be timeously made.” 

“Friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “believe not that I will 
do to the Father Abbot the indignity of delivering such an 
errand. — Think’st thou the goods of the church were be- 
stowed upon her by holy princes and pious nobles, now 
dead and gone, to be consumed in revelry by every profli- 
gate layman who numbers in his train more followers than 

* Kenspeckle — that which is easily recognised by the eye. 


THE MONASTERY. 


IT 3 

he can support by honest means, or by his own incomings ? 
Tell thy master, from the Sub-Prior of Saint Mary’s, that 
the Primate hath issued his commands to us that we sub- 
mit no longer to this compulsory exaction of hospitality 
on slight or false pretences. Our lands and goods were 
given to relieve pilgrims and pious persons, not to feast 
bands of rude soldiers.” 

“ This to me !” said the angry spearman, “this to me 
and to my master ! — Look to yourself then, Sir Priest, and 
try if Ave and Credo will keep bullocks from wandering, 
and hay-stacks from burning.” 

“ Dost thou menace the Holy Church’s patrimony with 
waste and fire-raising,” said the Sub-Prior, “and that in 
the face of the sun ? I call on all who hear me to bear 
witness to the words this ruffian has spoken. Remember 
how the Lord James drowned such as you by scores in the 
black pool at Jeddart. — To him and to the Primate will I 
complain.” The soldier shifted the position of his lance, 
and brought it down to a level with the monk’s body. 

Dame Glendinning began to shriek for assistance. 

“ Tibb Tacket! Martin! where be ye all? — Christie, for 
the love of God, consider he is a man of Holy Kirk !” 

“I care not for his spear,” said the Sub-Prior; “if I 
am slain in defending the rights and privileges of my com- 
munity, the Primate will know how to take vengeance.” 

“Let him look to himself,” said Christie, but at the 
same time depositing his lance against the wall of the 
tower ; “ if the Fife men spoke true who came hither with 
the Governor in the last raid, Norman Leslie has him at 
feud, and is like to set him hard. We know Norman a 
true bloodhound, who will never quit the slot. But I had 
no design to offend the holy father,” he added, thinking 0 
perhaps he had gone a little too far ; “ I am a rude man, 
bred to lance and stirrup, and not used to deal with book- 
learned men and priests ; and I am willing to ask his for- 
giveness; — and his blessing, if I have said ought amiss.” 

“ For God’s .sake ! your reverence,” said the widow of 
Glendearg apart to the Sub-Prior, “bestow on him your 
forgiveness — how shall we poor folk sleep Jp security in 
the dark nights, if the convent is at feud with such men as 
lie is ? ” 

“You are right, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, “your safety 
should, and must be, in the first instance consulted. — Sol- 
dier, I forgive thee, and may God bless thee and send thee 
honesty.” 


8 


1 14 


THE MONASTERY . 


Christie of the Clinthill made an unwilling inclination 
with his head, and muttered apart, “ That is as much as to 
say, God send thee starvation. But now to my master’s 
demand, Sir Priest ? What answer am I to return ?” 

“That the body of the widow of Walter of Avenel,” an- 
swered the Father, “ shall be interred as becomes her 
rank, and in the tomb of her valiant husband. For your 
master’s proffered visit of three days, with such a com- 
pany and retinue, I have no authority to reply to it ; you 
must intimate your Chief’s purpose to the Reverend Lord 
Abbot.” 

“That will cost me a farther ride,” said the man, “but 
it is all in the day’s work. — How now, my lad,” said he to 
Halbert, who was handling the long lance which he had 
. laid aside ; “ how do you like such a plaything ? — Will you 
go with me and be a moss-trooper ? ” 

“ The Saints in their mercy forbid ! ” said the poor 
mother ; and then, afraid of having displeased Christie by 
the vivacity of her exclamation, she followed it up by ex- 
plaining, that since Simon’s death she could not look on a 
spear or a bow, or any implement of destruction, without 
trembling. 

“ Pshaw ! ” answered Christie, “ thou shouldst take an- 
other husband, dame, and drive such follies out of thy 
thoughts — what sayest thou to such a strapping lad as I ? 
Why this old tower of thine is fencible enough, and there 
is no want of cleughs, and crags, and bogs, and thickets, if 
one was set hard ; a man might bide here and keep his 
half-score of lads, and as many geldings, and live on what 
he could lay his hand on, and be kind to thee, old 
wench.” 

“Alas! Master Christie,” said the matron, “that you 
should talk to a lone woman in such a fashion, and death 
in the house besides! ” 

“ Lone woman ! — why, that is the very reason thou 
shouldst take a mate. Thy old friend is dead, why good 
—choose thou another of somewhat tougher frame, and 
that will not die of the pip like a young chicken. — Better 
still — Come, dame, let me have something to eat, and we 
will talk more of this.” 

Dame Elspeth, though she well knew the character of 
the man, whom in fact she both disliked and feared, could 
not help simpering at the personal address which he 
thought proper to make to her. She whispered to the 
Sub-Prior, “ ony thing just to keep him quiet,” and went 


THE MONASTERY. 


XI S 

into the tower to set before the soldier the food he desired, 
trusting betwixt good cheer, and the power of her own 
charms, to keep Christie of the Clinthill so well amused, 
that the altercation betwixt him and the holy father should 
not be renewed. 

The Sub-Prior was equally unwilling to hazard any un- 
necessary rupture between the community and such a per- 
son as Julian of Avenel. He was sensible that moderation, 
as well as firmness, was necessary to support the tottering 
cause of the Church of Rome ; and that, contrary to 
former times, the quarrels betwixt the clergy and laity had, 
in the present, usually terminated to the advantage of the 
latter. He resolved, therefore, to avoid farther strife by 
withdrawing, but failed not, in the first place, to possess 
himself of the volume which the Sacristan carried off the 
evening before, and which had been returned to the glen 
in such a marvellous manner. 

Edward, the younger of Dame Elspeth’s boys, made 
great objections to the book’s being removed, in which 
Mary would probably have joined, but that she was now 
in her little sleeping chamber with Tibb, who was exert- 
ing her simple skill to console the young lady for her 
mother’s death. But the younger Glendinning stood up 
in defence of her property, and, with a positiveness which 
had hitherto made no part of his character, declared, that 
now the kind lady was dead, the book was Mary’s, and no 
one but Mary should have it. 

“ But if it is not a fit book for Mary to read, my dear 
boy,” said the father, gently, “you would not wish it to 
remain with her ? ” 

“ The lady read it,” answered the young champion of 
property ; “and so it could not be wrong — it shall not be 
taken away. — I wonder where Halbert is ? — listening to the 
bravading tales of gay Christie, I reckon, — he is always 
wishing for fighting, and now he is out of the way.” 

“Why, Edward, you would not fight with me, who am 
both a priest and an old man ?” 

“If you were as good a priest as the Pope,” said the 
boy, “ and as old as the hills to boot, you shall not carry 
away Mary’s book without her leave. I will do battle 
for it.” 

“ But see you, my love,” said the monk, amused with the 
resolute friendship manifested by the boy, “ I do not take 
it, I only borrow it ; and I leave in its place my own gay 
missal, as a pledge I will bring it again.” 


Ii6 


THE MONASTERY, 


Edward opened the missal with eager curiosity, and 
glanced at the pictures with which it was illustrated. 
“ Saint George and the dragon — Halbert will like that ; 
and Saint Michael brandishing his sword over the head of 
the Wicked One — and that will do for Halbert too. And 
see the Saint John leading his lamb in the wilderness, with 
his little cross made of reeds, and his scrip and staff — that 
shall be my favorite ; and where shall we find one for poor 
Mary ? — here is a beautiful woman weeping and lamenting 
herself.” 

“This is Saint Mary Magdalen repenting of her sins, my 
dear boy,” said the father. 

“ That will not suit our Mary ; for she commits no faults, 
and is never angry with us, but when we do something 
wrong.” 

“ Then,” said the father, “ I will show you a Mary, who 
will protect her and you, and all good children. See how 
fairly she is represented, with her gown covered with 
golden stars.” 

The boy was lost in wonder at the portrait of the Virgin, 
which the Sub-Prior turned up to him. 

“This,” he said, “is really like our sweet Mary; and I 
think I will let you take away the black book, that has no 
such goodly shows in it, and leave this for Mary instead. 
But you must promise to bring back the book, good father 
— for now I think upon it, Mary may like that best which 
was her mother’s.” 

“I will certainly return,” said the monk, evading his 
answer, “and perhaps I may teach you to write and read 
such beautiful letters as you see there written, and to 
paint them blue, green, and yellow, and to blazon them 
with gold.” 

“Ay, and to make such figures as these blessed Saints, 
and especially these two Marys ?” said the boy. 

“With their blessing,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I can teach 
you that art too, so far as I am myself capable of showing, 
and you of learning it.” 

“Then,” said Edward, “will I paint Mary’s picture — 
and remember you are to bring back the black book ; that 
you must promise me.” 

The Sub-Prior, anxious to get rid of the boy’s perti- 
nacity, and to set forward on his return to the convent, 
without having any further interview with Christie the gal- 
loper, answered by giving the promise Edward required, 
mounted his mule, and set forth on his return homeward. 


THE MONASTERY. 


117 

The November day was well spent ere the Sub-Prior . re- 
sumed his journey ; for the difficulty of the road, and the 
various delays which he had met with at the tower, had 
detained him longer than he proposed. A chill easterly 
wind was sighing among the withered leaves, and stripping 
them from the hold they had yet retained on the parent trees. 

“ Even so,” said the monk, “ our prospects in this vale 
of time grow more disconsolate as the stream of years 
passes on. Little have I gained by my journey, saving 
the certainty that heresy is busy among us with more than 
his usual activity, and that the spirit of insulting religious 
orders, and plundering the Church’s property, so general in 
the eastern districts of Scotland, has now come nearer home.” 

The tread of a horse which came up behind him in- 
terrupted his reverie, and he soon saw he was mounted by 
the same wild rider whom he had left at the tower. 

“Good even, my son, and benedicite,” said the Sub- 
Prior as he passed ; but the rude soldier scarce acknowl- 
edged the greeting, by bending his head ; and dashing the 
spurs into his horse, went on at a pace which soon left the 
monk and his mule far behind. “And there,” thought the 
Sub-Prior, “goes another plague of the times — a fellow 
whose birth designed him to cultivate the earth, but who is 
perverted by the unhallowed and unchristian divisions of 
the country into a daring and dissolute robber. The barons 
of Scotland are now turned masterful thieves and ruffians, 
oppressing the poor by violence, and wasting the Church, 
by extorting free quarters from abbeys and priories, with- 
out either shame or reason. I fear me I shall be too late 
to counsel the Abbot to make a stand against these daring 
sorners * — I must make haste.” He struck his mule with 
his riding wand accordingly ; but, instead of mending her 
pace, the animal suddenly started from the path, and the 
rider’s utmost efforts could not force her forward. 

“Art thou, too, infected with the spirit of the times?” 
said the Sub-Prior, “ thou wert wont to be ready and ser- 
viceable, and art now as restive as any wild jack-man or 
stubborn heretic of them all.” 


* To some , in Scotland, is to exact free quarters against the will o^ the 
landlord. It is declared equivalent to theft, by a statute passed in the 
year 1445. The great chieftains oppressed the monasteries very mud' by 
exactions of this nature. The community of Aberbrothwick complained of 
an Earl of Angus, I think, who was in the regular habit of visiting them 
once a-year, with a train of a thousand horse, and abiding till the whole 
winter provisions of the convent were exhausted. 


THE MONASTERY. 


118 

While he was contending with the startled animal, a 
voice, like that of a female, chanted in his ear, or at least 
very close to it, 

“ Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, 

With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide ; 

But ride you through valley, or ride you o’er hill, 

There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. 

Back, back, 

The volume black ! 

I have a warrant to carry it back.” 

The Sub-Prior looked around, but neither bush nor 
brake was near which could conceal an ambushed song- 
stress. “ May Our Lady have mercy on me ! ” he said ; 
“ I trust my senses have not forsaken me — yet how my 
thoughts should arrange themselves into rhymes which I 
despise, and music which I care not for, or why there 
should be the sound of a female voice in ears, in which its 
melody has been so long indifferent, baffles my comprehen- 
sion, and almost realizes the vision of Philip the Sacristan. 
Come, good mule, betake thee to the path, and let us 
hence while our judgment serves us.” 

But the mule stood as if it had been rooted to the spot, 
backed from the point to which it was pressed by its rider, 
and by her ears laid close into her neck, and her eyes 
almost starting from their sockets, testified that she was 
under great terror. 

While the Sub-Prior, by alternate threats and soothing, 
endeavored to reclaim the wayward animal to her duty, the 
wild musical voice was again heard close beside him. 

“ What, ho ! Sub-Prior, and came you but here 
To conjure a book from a dead woman’s bier? 

Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 

Ride back with the book, or you’ll pay for your prize. 

Back, back, 

There’s death in the track ! 

In the name of my master I bid thee bear back.” 

“ In the name of my Master,” said the astonished monk, 
“ that name before which all things created tremble, I con- 
jure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus ? ” 

The same voice replied, 

“That which is neither ill nor well, 

That which belongs not to Pleaven nor to hell, 

A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream, 

’Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream ; 

A form that men spy 
With the half-shut eye, 

In the beams of the setting sun, am L” 


THE MONASTERY. 


1 19 

“ This is more than simple fantasy,” said the Sub-Prior, 
rousing himself ; though, notwithstanding the natural 
hardihood of his temper, the sensible presence of a super- 
natural being so near him, failed not to make his blood run 
cold, and his hair bristle. “ I charge thee,” he said aloud, 
“ be thine errand what it will, to depart and trouble me 
no more ! False spirit, *thou canst not appal any save 
those who do the work negligently.” 

The voice immediately answered — 

“ Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right ! 

Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night ; 

I can dance on the torrent and ride on the air, 

And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. 

Again, again, 

At the crook of the glen, 

Where bickers the burnie, I’ll meet thee again. 

The road was now apparently left open ; for the mule 
collected herself, and changed from her posture of terror 
to one which promised advance, although a profuse per- 
spiration, and general trembling of the joints, indicated 
the bodily terror she had undergone. 

“ I used to doubt the existence of Cabalists and Rosi- 
crucians,” thought the Sub-Prior, “ but, by my Holy Order, 
I know no longer what to say ! — My pulse beats temper- 
ately — my hand is cool — I am fasting from everything but 
sin, and possessed of my ordinary faculties — Either some 
fiend is permitted to bewilder me, or the tales of Cornelius 
Agrippa, Paracelsus, and others who treat of occult phi- 
losophy, are not without foundation. — At the crook of the 
glen ? I could have desired to avoid a second meeting, 
but I am on the service of the Church, and the gates of 
hell shall not prevail against me.” 

He moved around accordingly, but wjth precaution, and 
not without fear; for he neither knew the manner in which, 
or the place where, his journey might be next interrupted 
by his invisible attendant. He descended the glen with- 
out interruption for about a mile farther, when, just at 
the spot where the brook approached the steep hill, with 
a winding so abrupt as to leave scarcely room for a horse 
to pass, the mule was again visited with the same symp- 
toms of terror which had before interrupted her course. 
Better acquainted than before with the cause of her res- 
tiveness, the Priest employed no effort to make her pro- 
ceed, but addressed himself to the object, which he doubted 
not was the same that had formerly interrupted him, in 


120 


THE MONASTERY. 


the words of solemn exorcism prescribed by the Church 
of Rome on such occasions. 

In reply to his demand, the voice again sung — 

“ Men of good are bold as sackless,* 

Men of rude are wild and reckless ; 

Lie thou still, % 

In the nook of the hill, 

For those be before thee that wish thee ill.” 

While the Sub-Prior listened, with his head turned in 
the direction from which the sounds seemed to come, he 
felt as if something rushed against him ; and ere he could 
discover the cause, he was pushed from his saddle with 
gentle but irresistible force. Before he reached the ground 
his senses were gone, and he lay long in a state of insen- 
sibility ; for the sunset had not ceased to gild the top 
of the distant hill when he fell, — and when he again be- 
came conscious of existence, the pale moon was gleaming 
on the landscape. He awakened in a state of terror, from 
which, for a few minutes, he found it difficult to shake 
himself free. At length he sat upon the grass, and be- 
came sensible, by repeated exertion, that the only personal 
injury which he had sustained was the numbness arising 
from extreme cold. The motion of something near him 
made the blood again run to his heart, and by a sudden 
effort he started up, and looking around, saw to his relief 
that the noise was occasioned by the footsteps of his own 
mule. The peaceable animal had remained quietly beside 
her master during his trance, browsing on the grass which 
grew plentifully in that sequestered nook. 

With some exertion he collected himself, remounted the 
animal, and meditating upon his wild adventure descended 
the glen till its junction with the broader valley through 
which the Tweed winds. The drawbridge was readily 
dropped at his first summons ; and so much had he won 
upon the heart of the churlish warden, that Peter appeared 
himself with a lantern to show the Sub-Prior his way over 
the perilous pass. 

“By my sooth, sir,” he said, holding the light up to 
Father Eustace’s face, “you look sorely travelled and 
deadly pale — but a little matter serves to weary out you 
men of the cell. I now who speak to you — I have ridden 
• — before I was perched up here on this pillar betwixt wind 


* Sackless — innocent. 


THE MONASTERY. 


121 


and water — it may be thirty Scots miles before I broke 
my fast, and have had the red of a bramble rose in my 
cheek all the while — But will you taste some food, or a 
cup of distilled waters ?” 

“ I may not,” said Father Eustace, “being under a vow; 
but I thank you for your kindness, and pray you to give 
what I may not accept to the next poor pilgrim who comes 
hither pale and fainting, for so it shall be the better both 
with him here, and with you hereafter.” 

“ By my faith, and I will do so,” said Peter Bridge- 
Ward, “ even for thy sake — It is strange now, how this 
Sub-Prior gets round one’s heart more than the rest of 
these cowled gentry, that think of nothing but quaffing 
and stuffing ! Wife, I say — wife, we will give a cup of dis- 
tilled waters and a crust of bread unto the next pilgrim 
that comes over ; and ye may keep for the purpose the 
grunds of the last greybeard,* and the ill-baked bannock 
which the bairns couldna eat.” , 

While Peter issued these charitable, and, at the same 
time, prudent injunctions, the Sub-Prior, whose mild in- 
terference had awakened the Bridge- Ward to such an act 
of unwonted generosity, was pacing onward to the Monas- 
tery. In the way, he had to commune with and subdue 
his own rebellious heart, an enemy, he was sensible, more 
formidable than any which the external powers of Satan 
could place in his way. 

Father Eustace had indeed strong temptation to sup- 
press the extraordinary incident which had befallen him, 
which he was the more reluctant to confess, because he 
had passed so severe a judgment upon Father Philip, who, 
as he was not unwilling to allow, had, on his return from 
Glendearg, encountered obstacles somewhat similar to his 
own. Of this the Sub-Prior was the more convinced, 
when, feeling in his bosom for the Book which he had 
brought off from the tower of Glendearg, he found it was 
amissing, which he could only account for by supposing it 
had been stolen from him during his trance. 

“ If I confess this strange visitation,” thought the Sub- 
Prior, “ I become the ridicule of all my brethren — I, whom 
the Primate sent hither to be a watch, as it were, and a 
check upon their follies. I give the Abbot an advantage 
over me which I shall never again recover, and Heaven 
only knows how he may abuse it, in his foolish simplicity, 


An old-fashioned name for an earthen jar for holding spirits. 


122 


THE MONASTERY. 


to the dishonor and loss of Holy Kirk. But then, if I 
make not true confession of my shame, with what face can 
I again presume to admonish or restrain others ? Avow, 
proud heart,” continued he, addressing himself, “that the 
weal of Holy Church interests thee less in this matter than 
thine own humiliation — Yes, Heaven has punished thee 
even in that point in which thou didst deem thyself most 
strong, in thy spiritual pride and thy carnal wisdom. Thou 
hast laughed at and derided the inexperience of thy breth- 
ren — stoop thyself in turn to their derision — tell what they 
may not believe — affirm that which they will ascribe to 
idle fear, or perhaps to idle falsehood — sustain the dis- 
grace of a silly visionary, or a wilful deceiver. Be it so ; 
I will do my duty, and make ample confession to my su- 
perior. If the discharge of this duty destroys my useful- 
ness in this house, God and Our Lady will send me where 
I can better serve them.” 

There was no little merit in the resolution thus piously 
and generously formed by Father Eustace. To men of 
any rank the esteem of their order is naturally most dear ; 
but in the monastic establishment, cut off, as the brethren 
are, from other objects of ambition, as well as from all ex- 
terior friendship and relationship, the place which they 
hold in the opinion of each other is all in all. 

But the consciousness how much he should rejoice the 
Abbot and most of the other monks of Saint Mary’s, who 
were impatient of the unauthorized, yet irresistible con- 
trol, which he was wont to exercise in the affairs of the 
convent, by a confession which would put him in a ludi- 
crous, or perhaps even in a criminal point of view, could 
not weigh with Father Eustace in comparison with the 
task which his belief enjoined. 

As, strong in his feelings of duty, he approached the 
exterior gate of the Monastery, he was surprised to see 
torches gleaming, and men assembled around it, some on 
horseback, some on foot, while several of the monks, dis- 
tinguished through the night by their white scapularies, 
were making themselves busy among the crowd. The 
Sub-Prior was received with a unanimous shout of joy, 
which at once made him sensible that he had himself been 
the object of their anxiety. 

“ There he is ! there he is ! God be thanked — there he 
is, hale and feir ! ” exclaimed the vassals; while the monks 
exclaimed, “ Te Deum laudamus — the blood of thy servants 
is precious in thy sight ! ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


123 


“ What is the matter, children ? what is the matter, my 
brethren ?” said Father Eustace, dismounting at the gate. 

“ Nay, brother, if thou know’st not, we will not tell thee 
till* thou art in the refectory,” answered the monks ; “suf- 
fice it that the Lord Abbot had ordered these, our zealous 
and faithful vassals, instantly to set forth to guard thee 
from imminent peril — Ye may ungirth your horses, chil- 
dren, and dismiss ; and to-morrow, each who was at this ren- 
dezvous may send to the convent kitchen for a quarter of 
a yard of roast beef, and a black-jack full of double ale.” * 
The vassals dispersed with joyful acclamation, and the 
monks, with equal jubilee, conducted the Sub-Prior into 
the refectory. 


CHAPTER TENTH. 


Here we stand 

Woundless and well, may Heaven’s high name be bless’ d for’t ! 

As erst, ere treason couch’d a lance against us. 

Decker. 

No sooner was the Sub-Prior hurried into the refectory 
by his rejoicing companions, than the first person on whom 
he fixed his eye proved to be Christie of the Clinthill. He 
was seated in the chimney-corner, fettered and guarded, 
his features drawn into that air of sulky and turbid resolu- 
tion with which those hardened in guilt are accustomed to 
view the approach of punishment. But as the Sub-Prior 
drew near to him, his face assumed a more wild and 
startled expression, while he exclaimed — “The devil! the 
devil himself, brings the dead back upon the living ! ” 

“ Nay,” said a monk to him, “say rather that Our Lady 
foils the attempts of the wicked on her faithful servants — 
our dear brother lives and moves.” 

“ Lives and moves ! ” said the ruffian, rising and shuffling 
toward the Sub-Prior as well as his chains would permit ; 
“ nay, then, I will never trust ashen shaft and steel point 
more — It is even so,” he added, as he gazed on the Sub- 
Prior with astonishment ; “ neither wem nor wound — not 
as much as a rent in his frock ! ” 

* It was one of the few reminiscences of Old Parr, or Plenry Jenkins, I 
forget which, that at some convent in the veteran’s neighborhood, the 
community, before the dissolution, used to dole out roast beef by tie 
measure of feet and yards. 


124 


THE MONASTERY, 


“And whence should my wound have come?” said 
Father Eustace. 

“ From the good lance that never failed me before,” re- 
plied Christie of the Clinthill. 

“ Heaven absolve thee for thy purpose ! ” said the Sub- 
Prior ; “wouldst thou have slain a servant of the altar?” 

“To choose!” answered Christie; “the Fifemen say, 
an the whole pack of ye were slain, there were more lost 
at Flodden.” 

“Villain ! art thou heretic as well as murderer?” 

“Not I, by Saint Giles,” replied the rider; “ I listened 
blithely enough to the Laird of Monance, when he told 
me ye were all cheats and knaves ; but when he would 
have had me go hear one Wiseheart, a gospeller as they 
call him, he might as well have persuaded the wild colt 
that had flung one rider to kneel down and help another 
into the saddle.” 

“There is some goodness about him yet,” said the Sac- 
ristan to the Abbot, who at that moment entered — “ He 
refused to hear a heretic preacher.” 

“ The better for him in the next world,” answered the 
Abbot. “ Prepare for death, my son, — we deliver thee 
over to the secular arm of our bailie, for execution on the 
Gallo w-hill by peep of light.” 

“Amen!” said the ruffian ; “ ’tis the end I must have 
come by sooner or later — and what care I whether I feed 
the crows at Saint Mary’s or at Carlisle ? ” 

“Let me implore your reverend patience for an instant,” 
said the Sub-Prior, “ until I shall inquire” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed the Abbot, observing him for the 
first time — “ Our dear brother restored to us when his life 
was unhoped for ! — nay, kneel not to a sinner like me — 
stand up — thou hast my blessing. When this villain came 
to the gate accused by his own evil conscience, and crying 
out he had murdered thee, I thought that the pillar of our 
main aisle had fallen — no more shall a life so precious be 
exposed to such risks as occur in this border country ; no 
longer shall one beloved and rescued of Heaven hold so 
low a station in the church as that of a poor Sub-Prior — I 
will write by express to the Primate for thy speedy re- 
moval and advancement.” 

“ Nay, but let me understand,” said the Sub-Prior ; “did 
this soldier say he had slain me ?” 

“ That he had transfixed you,” answered the Abbot, “ in 
full career with his lance — but it seems he had taken an 


THE MONASTERY. 


125 


indifferent aim. But no sooner didst thou fall to the 
ground mortally gored, as he deemed, with his weap- 
on, than our blessed Patroness appeared to him, as he 
averred ” 

“ I averred no such thing,” said the prisoner ; “ I said a 
woman in white interrupted me, as I was about to examine 
the priest’s cassock, for they are usually well lined — she 
had a bulrush in her hand, with one touch of which she 
struck me from my horse, as I might strike down a child 
of four years old with an iron mace — and then, like a sing- 
ing fiend as she was, she sung to me, 

‘ Thank the holly-bush 
That nods on thy brow ; 

Or with this slender rush 
I had strangled thee now.’ 

I gathered myself up with fear and difficulty, threw myself 
on my horse, and came hither like a fool to get myself 
hanged for a rogue.” 

“ Thou seest, honored brother,” said the Abbot to the 
Sub-Prior, “ in what favor thou art with our blessed Pa- 
troness, that she herself becomes the guardian of thy 
paths — Not since the days of our blessed founder hath 
she shown such grace to any one. All unworthy were we 
to hold spiritual superiority over thee, and we pray thee 
to prepare for thy speedy removal to Aberbrothwick.” 

“Alas! my lord and father,” said the Sub-Prior, “your 
words pierce my very soul. Under the seal of confession 
will I presently tell thee why I conceive myself rather the 
baffled sport of a spirit of another sort, than the protected 
favorite of the heavenly powers. But first let me ask this 
unhappy man a question or two.” 

“ Do as ye list,” replied the Abbot — “ but you shall not 
convince me that it is fitting you remain in this inferior 
office in the convent of Saint Mary.” 

“ I would ask of this poor man,” said Father Eustace, “ for 
what purpose he nourished the thought of putting to death 
one who never did him evil ?” 

“Ay! but thou didst menace me with evil,” said the 
ruffian, “ and no one but a fool is menaced twice. Dost thou 
not remember what you said touching the Primate and 
Lord James and the black pool of Jedwood ? Didst thou 
think me fool enough to wait till thou hadst betrayed me 
to the sack and the fork ! There was small wisdom in that, 
methinks — as little as in coming hither to tell my own mis- 


126 


THE MONASTERY. 


deeds — I think the devil was in me when I took this road 
— I might have remembered the proverb, ‘ Never Friar for- 
got feud.’ ” 

“ And it was solely for that — for that only hasty word of 
mine, uttered in a moment of impatience, and forgotten 
ere it was well spoken ? ” said Father Eustace. 

“ Ay ! for that, and — for the love of thy gold crucifix,” 
said Christie of the Clin thill. 

“ Gracious Heaven ! and could the yellow metal — the 
glittering earth — so far overcome every sense of what is 
thereby represented ? — Father Abbot, I pray, as a dear 
boon, you will deliver this guilty person to my mercy.” 

“ Nay, brother,” interposed the Sacristan, “ to your doom, 
if you will, not to your mercy — Remember, we are not all 
equally favored by our blessed Lady, nor is it likely that 
every frock in the Convent will serve as a coat of proof 
when a lance is couched against it.” 

“ For that very reason,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I would 
not that for my worthless self the community were to fall 
at feud with Julian of Avenel, this man’s master.” 

“ Our Lady forbid ! ” said the Sacristan, “ he is a second 
Julian the Apostate.” 

“ With our reverend father the Abbot’s permission then,” 
said Father Eustace, “ I desire this man be freed from 
his chains, and suffered to depart uninjured ; — and here, 
friend,” he added, giving him the golden crucifix, “is the 
image for which thou wert willing to stain thy hands with 
murder. View it well, and may it inspire thee with other 
and better thoughts than those which referred to it as a 
piece of bullion ! Part with it, nevertheless, if thy neces- 
sities require, and get thee one of such coarse substance 
that Mammon shall have no share in any of the reflections 
to which it gives rise. It was the bequest of a dear friend 
to me ; but dearer service can it never do than that of 
winning a soul to Heaven.” 

The Borderer, now freed from his chains, stood gazing 
alternately on the Sub-Prior, and on the golden crucifix. 
“By Saint Giles ! ” said he, “ I understand ye not ! An ye 
give me gold for couching my lance at thee, what would 
you give me to level it at a heretic ?” 

“The Church,” said the Sub-Prior, “will try the effect 
of her spiritual censures to bring these stray sheep into 
the fold, ere she employ the edge of the sword of Saint 
Peter.” 

“Ay, but,” said the ruffian, “they say the Primate rec- 


THE MONASTERY. 


127 


ommends a little strangling and burning in aid both of 
censure and of sword. But fare ye weel, I owe you a life, 
and it may be I will not forget my debt.” 

The bailie now came bustling in, dressed in his blue 
coat and bandaliers, and attended by two or three halber- 
diers. “ I have been a thought too late in waiting upon 
your reverend lordship. I am grown somewhat fatter since 
the field of Pinkie, and my leathern coat slips not on so 
soon as it was wont , but the dungeon is ready, and though, 
as I said, I have been somewhat late ” 

Here his intended prisoner walked gravely up to the 
officer’s nose, to his great amazement. 

‘‘You have been indeed somewhat late, bailie,” said he, 
“ and I am greatly obligated to your buff-coat, and to the 
time you took to put it on. If the secular arm had arrived 
some quarter of an hour sooner, I had been out of the 
reach of spiritual grace ; but as it is, I wish you good even, 
and a safe riddance out of your garment of durance, in 
which you have much the air of a hog in armor.” 

Wroth was the bailie witli this comparison, and ex- 
claimed in ire — “An it were not for the presence of the 
venerable Lord Abbot, thou knave ” 

“Nay, an thou wouldst try conclusions,” said Christie of 
the Clinthill, “ I will meet thee at day-break by Saint 
Mary’s Well.” 

“Hardened wretch!” said Father Eustace; “art thou 
but this instant delivered from death, and dost thou so 
soon nurse thoughts of slaughter?” 

“ I will meet with thee ere it be long, thou knave,” said 
the bailie, “ and teach thee thine Oremus.” 

“I will meet thy cattle in a moonlight night before that 
day,” said he of the Clinthill. 

“ I will have thee by the neck one misty morning, thou 
strong thief,” answered the secular officer of the Church. 

“Thou art thyself as strong a thief as ever rode,” re- 
torted Christie ; “and if the worms were once feasting on 
that fat carcass of thine, I might well hope to have thine 
office, by favor of these reverend men.” 

“A cast of their office and a cast of mine,” answered 
the bailie ; “ a cord and a confessor, that is all thou wilt 
have from us.” 

“ Sirs,” said the Sub-Prior, observing that his brethren 
began to take more interest than was exactly decorous in 
this wrangling betwixt justice and iniquity, “ I pray you 
both to depart — Master Bailie, retire with your halberdiers, 


128 


THE MONASTERY. 


and trouble not the man whom we have dismissed — And 
thou, Christie, or whatever be thy name, take thy depart- 
ure, and remember thou owest thy life to the Lord Abbot’s 
clemency.” 

“Nay, as to that,” answered Christie, “I judge that I 
owe it to your own ; but impute it to whom ye list, I owe 
a life among ye, and there is an end.” And whistling as 
he went, he left the apartment, seeming as if lie held the 
life which he had forfeited not worth farther thanks. 

“ Obstinate even to brutality!” said Father Eustace; 
“and yet who knows but some better ore may lie under so 
rude an exterior ? ” 

“ Save a thief from the gallows,” said the Sacristan — 
“you know the rest of the proverb ; and admitting, as may 
Heaven grant, that our lives and limbs are safe from this 
outrageous knave, who shall insure our meal and our malt, 
our herds and our flocks ? ” 

“Marry, that will I, my brethren,” said an aged monk. 
“Ah, brethren, you little know what may be made of a re- 
pentant robber. In Abbot Ingilram’s days — ay, and I 
remember them as it were yesterday — the freebooters were 
the best welcome men that came to Saint Mary’s. Ay, 
they paid tithe of every drove 'that they brought over from 
the South, and because they were something lightly come 
by, I have known them make the tithe a seventh — that is, 
if their confessor knew his business — ay, when we saw 
from the tower a score of fat bullocks, ora drove of sheep, 
coming down the valley, with two or three stout men-at- 
arms behind them with their glittering steel caps, and their 
black-jacks, and their long lances, the good Lord Abbot 
Ingilram was wont to say — he was a merry man — There 
come the tithes of the spoilers of the Egyptians ! Ay, 
and I have seen the famous John the Armstrang — a fair 
man he was and a goodly, the more pity that hemp was 
ever heckled for him — I have seen him come into the 
Abbey-church with nine tassels of gold in his bonnet, and 
every tassel made of nine English nobles, and he would go 
from chapel to chapel, and from image to image, and from 
altar to altar, on his knees — and leave here a tassel and 
there a noble, till there was as little gold on his bonnet 
as on my hood — you will find no such Border thieves 
now ! ” 

“ No truly, Brother Nicolas,” answered the Abbot; “ they 
are more apt to take any gold the Church has left, than to 
bequeath or bestow any — and for cattle, beshrew me if I 


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129 


think they care whether beeves have fed on the meadows 
of Lanercost Abbey, or of St. Mary’s ! ” 

“There is no good thing left in them,” said Father 
Nicolas ; “ they are clean naught — Ah, the thieves that I 
have seen ! — such proper men ! and as pitiful as proper, 
and as pious as pitiful ! ” 

“ It skills not talking of it, Brother Nicolas,” said the 
Abbot ; “ and I will now dismiss you, my brethren, holding 
your meeting upon this our inquisition concerning the dan- 
ger of our reverend Sub-Prior, instead of the attendance 
on the lauds this evening — Yet let the bells 'be duly rung 
for the edification of the laymen without, and also that the 
novices may give due reverence. — And now, benedicite, 
brethren ! The cellarer will bestow on each a grace-cup 
and a morsel as ye pass the buttery, for ye have been tur- 
moiled and anxious, and dangerous it is to fall asleep in 
such case with empty stomach.” 

“ Gratias agimus quam maximas , Domine reverendissime ,” 
replied the brethren, departing in their due order. 

But the Sub-Prior remained behind, and falling on his 
knees before the Abbot, as he was about to withdraw, 
craved him to hear under the seal of confession the ad- 
ventures of the day. The reverend Lord Abbot yawned, 
and would have alleged fatigue ; but to Father Eustace, of 
all men, he was ashamed to show indifference in his relig- 
ious duties. The confession, therefore, proceeded, in which 
Father Eustace told all the extraordinary circumstances 
which had befallen him during the journey. And being 
questioned by the Abbot, whether he was not conscious of 
any secret sin, through which he might have been sub- 
jected for a time to the delusions of evil spirits, the Sub- 
Prior admitted, with frank avowal, that he thought lie 
might have deserved such penance for having judged with 
unfraternal rigor of the report of Father Philip the Sac- 
ristan. 

“ Heaven,” said the penitent, “ may have been willing to 
convince me, not only that he can at pleasure open a com- 
munication betwixt us and beings of a different, and, as we 
word it, supernatural class, but also to punish our pride of 
superior wisdom, or superior courage, or superior learn- 
ing.” 

It is well said that virtue is its own reward ; and I ques- 
tion if duty was ever more completely recompensed, than 
by the audience which the reverend Abbot so unwillingly 
yielded to the confession of the Sub-Prior. To find the 

9 


130 


THE MONASTERY. 


object of his fear, shall we say, or of his envy, or of both, 
accusing himself of the very error with which he had so 
tacitly charged him, was a corroboration of the Abbot’s 
judgment, a soothing of his pride, and an allaying of his 
fears. The sense of triumph, however, rather increased 
than diminished his natural good-humor ; and so far was 
Abbot Boniface from being disposed to tyrannize over his 
Sub-Prior, in consequence of this discovery, that in his ex- 
hortation he hovered somewhat ludicrously betwixt the 
natural expression of his own gratified vanity, and his 
timid reluctance to hurt the feelings of Father Eustace. 

“ My brother,” said he, ex cathedra , “ it cannot have es- 
caped your judicious observation, that we have often de- 
clined our own judgment in favor of your opinion, even 
about those matters which most nearly concerned the com- 
munity. Nevertheless, grieved would we be, could you 
think that we did this, either because we deemed our own 
opinion less pregnant, or our wit more shallow, than that 
of our other brethren. For it was done exclusively to give 
our younger brethren, such as your much esteemed self, 
my dearest brother, that courage which is necessary to a free 
deliverance of your opinion, — we oft-times setting apart our 
proper judgment, that our inferiors, and especially our dear 
brother the Sub-Prior, may be comforted and encouraged 
in proposing valiantly his own thoughts. Which our defer- 
ence and humility may, in some sort, have produced in your 
mind, most reverend brother, that self-opinion of parts and 
knowledge, which hath led unfortunately to your over-esti- 
mating your own faculties, and thereby subjecting yourself, 
as is but too visible, to the japes and mockeries of evil spirits. 
For it is assured that Heaven always holdeth us in the 
least esteem when we deem of ourselves most highly ; and 
also, on the other hand, it may be that we have somewhat 
departed from what became our high seat in this Abbey, 
in suffering ourselves to be too much guided, and even, 
as it were, controlled by the voice of our inferior. Where- 
fore,” continued the Lord Abbot, “ in both of us such 
faults shall and must be amended — you hereafter presum- 
ing less upon your gifts and carnal wisdom, and I taking 
heed not so easily to relinquish mine own opinion for that 
of one lower in place and in office. Nevertheless, we would 
not that we should thereby lose the high advantage which 
we have derived, and may yet derive, from your wise 
counsels, which hath been so often recommended to us by 
our most Reverend Primate. Wherefore on affairs of high 


THE MONASTERY. 


*31 

moment, we will call you to our presence in private, and 
listen to your opinion, which, if it shall agree with our 
own, we will deliver to the Chapter, as emanating directly 
from ourselves ; thus sparing you, dearest brother, that 
seeming victory which is so apt to engender spiritual pride, 
and avoiding ourselves the temptation of falling into that 
modest facility of opinion, whereby our office is lessened 
and our person (were that of consequence) rendered less 
important in the eyes of the community over which we 
preside.” 

Notwithstanding the high notions which, as a rigid 
Catholic, Father Eustace entertained of the sacrament of 
confession, as his Church calls it, there was some danger 
that a sense of the ridiculous might have stolen on him, 
when he heard his Superior, with such simple cunning, lay 
out a little plan for availing himself of the Sub-Prior’s wis- 
dom and experience, while he should take the whole credit 
to himself. Yet his conscience immediately told him that 
he was right. 

“I should have thought more,” he reflected, “of the 
spiritual Superior, and less of the individual. I should 
have spread my mantle over the frailties of my spiritual 
father, and done what I might to support his character, 
and, of course, to extend his utility among the brethren, as 
well as with others. The Abbot cannot be humbled, with- 
out the community being humbled in his person. Her 
boast is, that over all her children, especially over those 
called to places of distinction, she can diffuse those gifts 
which are necessary to render them illustrious.” 

Actuated by these sentiments, Father Eustace frankly 
assented to the charge which his Superior, even in that 
moment of authority, had^ rather intimated than made, and 
signified his humble acquiescence in any mode of com- 
municating his counsel which might be most agreeable to 
the Lord Abbot, and might best remove from himself all 
temptation to glory in his own wisdom. He then prayed 
the Reverend Father to assign him such penance as might 
best suit his offence, intimating, at the same time, that he 
had already fasted the whole day. 

“And it is that I complain of,” answered the Abbot, in- 
stead of giving him credit for his abstinence ; “it is these 
very penances, fasts, and vigils, of which we complain ; as 
tending only to generate airs and fumes of vanity, which, 
ascending from the stomach into the head, do but puff us 
up with vain-glory and self-opinion. It is meet and be- 


I 3 2 


THE MONASTERY. 


seeming that novices should undergo fasts and vigils ; for 
some part of every community must fast, and young 
stomachs may best endure it. Besides, in them it abates 
wicked thoughts, and the desire of worldly delights. But, 
reverend brother, for those to fast who are dead and mor- 
tified to the world, as I and thou, is work of supererogation, 
and is but the matter of spiritual pride. Wherefore, I en- 
join thee, most reverend brother, go to the buttery, and 
drink two cups at least of good wine, eating withal a com- 
fortable morsel, such as may best suit thy taste and stomach. 
And in respect that thine opinion of thy own wisdom hath 
at times made thee less conformable to, and companion- 
able with, the weaker and less learned brethren, I enjoin 
thee, during the said repast, to choose for thy companion 
our reverend brother Nicolas, and without interruption or 
impatience, to listen for a stricken hour to his narration 
concerning those things which befell in the times of our 
venerable predecessor, Abbot Ingilram, on whose soul may 
Heaven have mercy ! And for such holy exercises as may 
farther advantage your soul, and expiate the faults where- 
of you have contritely and humbly avowed yourself guilty, 
we will ponder upon that matter, and announce our will 
unto you the next morning.” 

It was remarkable, that after this memorable evening, 
the feelings of the worthy Abbot toward his adviser were 
much more kindly and friendly than when he deemed the 
Sub-Prior the impeccable and infallible person, in whose 
garment of virtue and wisdom no flaw was to be discerned. 
It seemed as if this avowal of his own imperfections had 
recommended Father Eustace to the friendship of the 
Superior, although at the same time this increase of benevo* 
lence was attended with some circumstances, which to a 
man of the Sub-Prior’s natural elevation of mind and tem- 
per, were more grievous than even undergoing the legends 
of the dull and verbose Father Nicolas. For instance, 
the Abbot seldom mentioned him to the other monks, with- 
out designing him our beloved Brother Eustace, poor man! 
—and now and then he used to warn the younger brethren 
against the snares of vain-glory and spiritual pride, which 
Satan sets for the more rigidly righteous, with such looks 
and demonstrations as did all but expressly designate the 
Sub-Prior as one who had fallen at one time under such 
delusions. Upon these occasions, it required all the votive 
obedience of a monk, all the philosophical discipline of the 
schools, and all the patience of a Christian, to enable 


THE MONASTERY. 


I 33 


Father Eustace to endure the pompous and patronizing 
parade of his honest, but somewhat thick-headed Superior. 
He began himself to be desirous of leaving the Monastery, 
or at least he manifestly declined to interfere with its 
affairs, in that marked and authoritative manner which he 
had at first practised. 


CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 

You call this education, do you not ? 

Why, ’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks 
Before a shouting drover. The glad van 
Move on at ease, and pause awhile to snatch 
A passing morsel from the dewy greensward, 

While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation, 

Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard 

That cripples in the rear. Old Play. 

Two or three years glided on, during which the storm of 
the approaching alteration in church government became 
each day louder and more perilous. Owing to the circum- 
stances which we have intimated in the end of the last 
chapter, the Sub-Prior Eustace appeared to have altered 
considerably his habits of life. He afforded, on all extra- 
ordinary occasions, to the Abbot, whether privately, or in 
the assembled Chapter, the support of his wisdom and ex- 
perience ; but in his ordinary habits he seemed now to live 
more for himself, and less for the community, than had 
been his former practice. 

He often absented himself for whole days from the con- 
vent ; and as the adventure of Glendearg dwelt deeply on 
his memory, he was repeatedly induced to visit that lonely 
tower, and to take an interest in the orphans who had their 
shelter under its roof. Besides, he felt a deep anxiety to 
know whether the volume which he had lost, when so 
strangely preserved from the lance of the murderer, had 
again found its way back to the Tower of Glendearg. “It 
was strange,” he thought, “ that a spirit,” for such he could 
not help judging the being whose voice he had heard, 
“ should, on the one side, seek the advancement of heresy, 
and, on the other, interpose to save the life of a zealous 
Catholic priest.” 

But from no inquiry which he made of the various in- 
habitants of the Tower of Glendearg could he learn that 


134 


THE MONASTERY. 


the copy of the translated Scriptures, for which he made 
such diligent inquiry, had again been seen by any of them. 

In the meanwhile the good father’s occasional visits were 
of no small consequence to Edward Glendinning and to 
Mary Avenel. The former displayed a power of appre- 
hending and retaining whatever was taught him, which 
filled Father Eustace with admiration. He was at once 
acute and industrious, alert and accurate ; one of those 
rare combinations of talent and industry which are seldom 
united. 

It was the earnest desire of Father Eustace that the ex- 
cellent qualities thus early displayed by Edward should 
be dedicated to the service of the Church, to which he 
thought the youth’s own consent might be easily obtained, 
as he was of a calm, contemplative, retired habit, and 
seemed to consider knowledge as the principal object, and 
its enlargement as the greatest pleasure, in life. As to the 
mother, the Sub-Prior had little doubt that, trained as she 
was to view the monks of Saint Mary’s with such profound 
reverence, she would be but too happy in an opportunity 
of enrolling one of her sons in its honored community. 
But the good Father proved to be mistaken in both these 
particulars. 

When he spoke to Elspeth Glendinning of that which a 
mother best loves to hear — the proficiency and abilities of 
her son — she listened with a delighted ear. But when 
Father Eustace hinted at the duty of dedicating to the 
service of the Church, talents which seemed fitted to de- 
fend and adorn it, the dame endeavored always to shift the 
subject ; and when pressed farther, enlarged on her own 
incapacity, as a lone woman, to manage the feu ; on the 
advantage which her neighbors of the township were often 
taking of her unprotected state, and on the wish she had 
that Edward might fill his father’s place, remain in the 
tower, and close her eyes. 

On such occasions the Sub-Prior would answer, that 
even in a worldly point of view the welfare of the family 
would be best consulted by one of the sons entering into 
the community of Saint Mary’s, as it was not to be sup- 
posed that he would fail to afford his family the important 
protection which he could then easily extend toward them. 
What could be a more pleasing prospect than to see him 
high in honor ? or what more sweet than to have the last 
duties rendered to her by a son revered for his holiness of 
life and exemplary manners ? Besides, he endeavored to 


THE MONASTERY. 


H5 

impress upon the dame that her eldest son, Halbert, whose 
bold temper and headstrong indulgence of a wandering 
humor rendered him incapable of learning, was, for that 
reason, as well as that he was her eldest born, fittest to 
bustle through the affairs of the world, and manage the 
little fief. 

Elspeth durst not directly dissent from what was pro- 
posed, for fear of giving displeasure, and yet she always 
had something to say against it. Halbert, she said, was 
not like any of the neighbor boys — he was taller by the 
head, and stronger by the half, than any boy of his years 
within the Halidome. But he was fit for no peaceful 
work that could be devised. If he liked a book ill, he 
liked a plough or a pattle worse. He had scoured his 
father’s old broadsword — suspended it by a belt round his 
waist, and seldom stirred without it. He was a sweet boy 
and a gentle if spoken fair, but cross him and he was a 
born devil. “ In a word,” she said, bursting into tears, 
“ deprive me of Edward, good father, and ye bereave my 
house of prop and pillar ; for my heart tells me that Hal- 
bert will take to his father’s gates, and die his father’s 
death.” 

When the conversation came to this crisis, the good-hu- 
mored monk was always content to drop the discussion for 
the time, trusting some opportunity would occur of re- 
moving her prejudices, for such he thought them, against 
Edward’s proposed destination. 

When, leaving the mother, the Sub-Prior addressed him- 
self to the son, animating his zeal for knowledge, and 
pointing out how amply it might be gratified should he 
agree to take holy orders, he found the same repugnance 
which Dame Elspeth had exhibited. Edward pleaded a 
want of sufficient vocation to so serious a profession — his 
reluctance to leave his mother, and other objections, which 
the Sub-Prior treated as evasive. 

“ I plainly perceive,”- he said one day, in answer to 
them, “that the devil has his factors as well as Heaven, 
and that they are equally, or, alas ! the former are per- 
haps more active, in bespeaking for their master the first 
of the market. I trust, young man, that neither idleness, 
nor licentious pleasure, nor the love of worldly gain and 
worldly grandeur, the chief baits with which the great 
Fisher of souls conceals his hook, are the cause of your de- 
clining the career to which I would incite you. But above 
all I trust — above all I hope — that the vanity of superior 


136 


THE MONASTERY. 


knowledge — a sin with which those who have made profi- 
ciency in learning are most frequently beset — has not led 
you into the awful hazard of listening to the dangerous 
doctrines which are now afloat concerning religion. Bet- 
ter for you that you were as grossly ignorant as the beasts 
which perish, than that the pride of knowledge should in- 
duce you to lend an ear to the voice of heretics.” Edward 
Glendinning listened to the rebuke with a downcast look, 
and failed not, when it was concluded, earnestly to vindi- 
cate himself from the charge of having pushed his studies 
into any subjects which the Church inhibited ; and so the 
monk was left to form vain conjectures respecting the 
cause of his reluctance to embrace the monastic state. 

It is an old proverb, used by Chaucer, and quoted by 
Elizabeth, that “ the greatest clerks are not the wisest 
men ; ” and it is as true as if the poet had not rhymed, or 
the queen reasoned on it. If Father Eustace had not had 
his thoughts turned so much to the progress of heresy, 
and so little to what was passing in the tower, he might 
have read, in the speaking eyes of Mary Avenel, now a 
girl of fourteen or fifteen, reasons which might disincline 
her youthful companion toward the monastic vows. I 
have said, that she also was a promising pupil of the good 
father, upon whom her innocent and infantine beauty had 
an effect of which he was himself, perhaps, unconscious. 
Her rank and expectations entitled her to be taught the 
arts of reading and writing — and each lesson which the 
monk assigned her was conned over in company with Ed- 
ward, and by him explained and re-explained, and again 
illustrated, until she became perfectly mistress of it. 

In the beginning of their studies, Halbert had been their 
school companion. But the boldness and impatience of 
his disposition soon quarrelled with an occupation in 
which, without assiduity and unremitted attention, no prog- 
ress was to be expected. The Sub-Prior’s visits were at 
irregular intervals, and often weeks would intervene be- 
tween them, in which case Halbert was sure to forget all 
that had been prescribed for him to learn, and much which 
he had partly acquired before. His deficiencies on these 
occasions gave him pain, but it was not of that sort which 
produces amendment. 

For a time, like all who are fond of idleness, he endeav- 
ored to detach the attention of his brother and Mary 
Avenel from their task, rather than to learn his own, and 
such dialogues as the following would ensue : — 


THE MONASTERY. 


137 


“ Take your bonnet, Edward, and make haste — the Laird 
of Colmslie is at the head of the glen with his hounds.” 

“ I care not, Halbert,” answered the younger brother ; 
“ two brace of dogs may kill a deer without my being there 
to see them, and I must help Mary Avenel with her les- 
son.” 

“ Ay ! you will labor at the monk’s lessons till you turn 
monk yourself,” answered Halbert. — “ Mary, will you go 
with me, and I will show you the cushat’s nest I told you 
of?” 

“I cannot go with you, Halbert,” answered Mary, “be- 
cause I must study this lesson —it will take me long to 
learn it — I am sorry I am so dull ; for if I could get my 
task as fast as Edward, I should like to go with you.” 

“ Should you indeed ? ” said Halbert ; “ then I will wait 
for you — and, what is more, I will try to get my lesson 
also.” 

With a smile and a sigh he took up the primer, and be- 
gan heavily to con over the task which had been assigned 
him. As if banished from the society of the two others, 
he sat sad and solitary in one of the deep window-recesses, 
and after in vain struggling with the difficulties of his task, 
and his disinclination to learn it, he found himself involun- 
tarily engaged in watching the movements of the other 
two students, instead of toiling any longer. 

The picture which Halbert looked upon was delightful 
in itself, but somehow or other it afforded very little pleas- 
ure to him. The beautiful girl, with looks of simple, yet 
earnest anxiety, was bent on disentangling those intricacies 
which obstructed her progress to knowledge, and looking 
ever and anon to Edward for assistance, while, seated close 
by her side, and watchful to remove every obstacle from 
her way, he seemed at once to be proud of the progress 
which his pupil made, and of the assistance which he was 
able to render her. There was a bond betwixt them, a 
strong and interesting tie, the desire of obtaining knowl- 
edge, the pride of surmounting difficulties. 

Feeling most acutely, yet ignorant of the nature and 
source of his own emotions, Halbert could no longer en- 
dure to look upon this quiet scene, but, starting up, dashed 
his book from him, and exclaimed aloud, “To the fiend I 
bequeath all books, and the dreamers that make them ! — I 
would a score of Southrons wduld come up the glen, and 
we should learn how little all this muttering and scribbling 
is worth.” 


THE MONASTERY. 



Mary Avenel and his brother started, and looked at Hal- 
bert with surprise, while he went on with great animation, 
his features swelling, and the tears starting into his eyes 
as he spoke. — “ Yes, Mary — I wish a score of Southrons 
came up the glen this very day ; and you should see one 
good hand, and one good sword, do more to protect you, 
than all the books that were ever opened, and all the pens 
that ever grew on a goose’s wing.” 

Mary looked a little surprised and a little frightened at 
his vehemence, but instantly replied affectionately, “You 
are vexed, Halbert, because you do not get your lessons so 
fast as Edward can ; and so am I, for I am as stupid as you 
- — But come, and Edward shall sit betwixt us and teach us.” 

“ He shall not teach me,” said Halbert, in the same an- 
gry mood ; “I can never teach hint to do anything that is 
honorable and manly, and he shall not teach me any of his 
monkish tricks. — I hate the monks, with their drawling 
nasal tone like so many frogs, and their long black petti- 
coats like so many women, and their reverences, and their 
lordships, and their lazy vassals that do nothing but peddle 
in the mire with plough and harrow from Yule to Michael- 
mas. I will call none lord, but him who wears a sword to 
make his title good ; and I will call none man, but him that 
can bear himself manlike and masterful.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, peace, brother ! ” said Edward ; “ if 
such words were taken up and reported out of the house, 
they would be our mothers ruin.” 

“ Report them yourself, then, and they will be your mak- 
ing, and nobody’s marring save mine own. Say that Hal- 
bert Glendinning will never be vassal to an old man with 
a cowl and shaven crown, while there are twenty barons 
who wear casque and plume that lack bold followers. Let 
them grant you these wretched acres, and much meal may 
they bear you to make your brochan.” He left the room 
hastily, but instantly returned, and continued to speak with 
the same tone of quick and irritated feeling. “And you 
need not think so much, neither of you, and especially you, 
Edward, need not think so much of your parchment book 
there, and your cunning in reading it. By my faith, I will 
soon learn to read as well as you ; and — for I know a better 
teacher than your grim old monk, and a better book than 
his printed breviary ; and since you like scholarcraft so 
well, Mary Avenel, you shall see whether Edward or I have 
most of it.” He left the apartment, and came not again. 

“ What can be the matter with him?” said Mary, follow- 


THE MONASTERY. 


U9 


ing Halbert with her eyes from the window, as with hasty 
and unequal steps he ran up the wild glen — “Where can 
your brother be going, Edward ? — what book ? — what 
teacher does he talk of ? ” 

“ It avails not guessing,” said Edward. “ Halbert is 
angry, he knows not why, and speaks of he knows not 
what : let us go again to our lessons, and he will come 
home when lie has tired himself with scrambling among 
the crags as usual.” 

But Mary’s anxiety on account of Halbert seemed more 
deeply rooted. She declined prosecuting the task in which 
they had been so pleasingly engaged, under the excuse of 
a headache ; nor could Edward prevail upon her to resume 
it again that morning. 

Meanwhile Halbert, his head unbonneted, his features 
swelled with jealous anger, and the tear still in his eye, 
sped up the wild and upper extremity of the little valley 
of Glendearg with the speed of a roebuck, choosing, as if 
in desperate defiance of the difficulties of the way, the 
wildest and most dangerous paths, and voluntarily expos- 
ing himself a hundred times to dangers which he might 
have escaped by turning a little aside from them. It 
seemed as if he wished his course to be as straight as that 
of the arrow to its mark. 

He arrived at length in a narrow and secluded cleugh , or 
deep ravine, which ran down into the valley, and contrib- 
uted a scanty rivulet to the supply of the brook with which 
Glendearg is watered. Up this he sped with the same 
precipitate haste which had marked his departure from 
the tower, nor did he pause and look around until he had 
reached the fountain from which the rivulet had its rise. 

Here Halbert stopped short, and cast a gloomy, and al- 
most a frightened glance around him. A huge rock rose 
in front, from a cleft of which grew a wild holly-tree, whose 
dark green branches rustled over the spring which arose 
beneath. The banks on either hand rose so high, and ap- 
proached each other so closely, that it was only when the 
sun was at its meridian height, and during the summer 
solstice, that its rays could reach the bottom of the chasm 
in which he stood. But it was now summer, and the hour 
was noon; so that the unwonted reflection of the sun was 
dancing in the pellucid fountain. 

“It is the season and the hour,” said Halbert to him- 
self ; “and now I- 1 might soon become wiser than Ed- 

ward with all his pains ! Mary should see whether he 


140 


THE MONASTERY. 


alone is fit to be consulted, and to sit by her side, and hang 
over her as she reads, and point out every word and every 
letter. And she loves me better than him — I am sure she 
does— for she comes of noble blood, and scorns sloth and 
cowardice. — And do I myself not stand here slothful and 
cowardly as any priest of them all ? — Why should I fear to 
call upon this form — this shape ? — Already have I endured 
the vision, and why not again ? What can it do to me, 
who am a man of lith and limb, and have by my side my 
father’s sword ? Does my heart beat — do my hairs bristle, 
at the thought of calling up a painted shadow, and how 
should I face a band of Southrons in flesh and blood ? By 
the soul of the first Glendinning, I will make proof of the 
charm ! ” 

He cast the leathern brogue or buskin from his right 
foot, planted himself in a firm posture, unsheathed his 
sword, and first looking around to collect his resolution, 
he bowed three times deliberately toward the holly-tree, 
and as often to the little fountain, repeating at the same 
time, with a determined voice, the following rhyme : — 


“ Thrice to the holly brake — 
Thrice to the well : — 

I bid thee awake, 

White Maid of Avenel ! 


Noon gleams on the Lake — 
Noon glows on the Fell — 
Wake thee, O wake, 

White Maid of Avenel ! ” 


These lines were hardly uttered, when there stood the 
figure of a female clothed in white, within three steps of 
Halbert Glendinning. 


“ I guess ’twas frightful there to see 
A lady richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly. ” * 


CHAPTER TWELFTH. 

There’s something in that ancient superstition, 

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 

The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles. 

Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock 
In secret solitude, may well be deem’d 
The haunt of something purer, more refined, 

And mightier than ourselves. 

Old Play. 

Young Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced 
the mystical rhymes, than, as we have mentioned in the 
conclusion of the last chapter, an appearance, as of a 
* Coleridge’s Chris label. 


THE MONASTERY. 


141 

beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within two yards 
of him. His terror for the moment overcame his natural 
courage, as well as the strong resolution which he had 
formed, that the figure which he had now twice seen 
should not a third time daunt him. But it would seem 
there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and 
blood in the consciousness that w^e stand in presence of a 
being in form like to ourselves, but so different in faculties 
and nature, that we can neither understand its purposes, 
nor calculate its means of pursuing them. 

Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs 
erecting themselves on his head — his mouth open — his 
eyes fixed, and, as the sole remaining sign of his late de- 
termined purpose, his sword pointed towards the appari- 
tion. At length, with a voice of ineffable sweetness, the 
White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish this 
being, sung, or rather chanted, the following lines : — 

“Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me ? 

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee ? 

He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing ! 

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. 

The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground. 

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound : 

The fleecy cloud is drifting by ; the breeze sighs for my stay, 

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.” 

The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give 
way to his resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, 
though with a faltering accent, “In the name of God, what 
art thou ? ” The answer was in melody of a different tone 
and measure : — 

“ What I am I must not show — 

What I am thou couldst not know — 

Something betwixt heaven and hell — 

Something that neither stood nor fell — 

Something that through thy wit or will 
May work thee good — may work thee ill. 

Neither substance quite nor shadow, 

Haunting lonely moor and meadow, 

Dancing by the haunted spring, 

Riding on the whirlwind’s wing ; 

Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion, 

While o’er our frozen minds they pass, 

Like shadows from the mirror’d glass. 

Wayward, fickle is our mood, 

Hovering betwixt bad and good, 


142 


THE MONASTERY. 


Happier than brief-dated man, 

Living twenty times his span ; 

Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the grave ! 

Man awakes to joy or sorrow : 

Ours the sleep that knows no morrow. 

This is all that I can show — 

This is all that thou mayest know.” 

The White Lady paused, and appeared to await an 
answer, but, as Halbert hesitated how to frame his speech, 
the vision seemed gradually to fade, and became more and 
more incorporeal. Justly guessing this to be a symptom 
of her disappearance, Halbert compelled himself to say, — 
“ Lady, when I saw you in the glen, and when you 
brought back the black book of Mary of Avenel, thou 
didst say I should one day learn to read it.” 

The White Lady replied, 

“ Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the spell, 

To waken me here by the Fairies’ Well : 

But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, 

More than to seek my haunted walk ; 

And thou hast loved the lance and the sword, 

More than good text and holy word ; 

And thou hast loved the deer to track, 

More than the lines and the letters black ; 

And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood, 

And scornest the nurture of gentle blood.” 

“ I will do so no longer, fair maiden,” said Halbert ; “ I 
desire to learn ; and thou didst promise me, that when I 
did so desire, thou wouldst be my helper ; I am no longer 
afraid of thy presence, and I am no longer regardless of 
instruction.” As he uttered these words, the figure of the 
White Maiden grew gradually as distinct as it had been at 
first ; and what had well-nigh faded into an ill-defined and 
colorless shadow, again assumed an appearance at least of 
corporeal consistency, although the hues were less vivid, 
and the outlines of the figure less distinct and defined — so 
at least it seemed to Halbert — than those of an ordinary 
inhabitant of the earth. “ Wilt thou grant my request,” 
he said, “fair Lady, and give to my keeping the holy 
book which Mary of Avenel has so often wept for ? ” 

The White Lady replied : 

“ Thy craven fear my truth accused ; 

Thine idlehood my trust abused ; 

He that draws to harbor late, 

Must sleep without, or burst the gate. 


THE MONASTERY. 


HI 


There is a star for thee which burn’d, 

Its influence wanes, its course is turn’d ; 

Valor and constancy alone 

Can bring thee back the chance that’s flown.” 

“ If I have been a loiterer, Lady,” answered young 
Glendinning, “ thou shalt now find me willing to press 
forward with double speed. Other thoughts have filled 
my mind, other thoughts have engaged my heart, within a 
brief period — and, by Heaven, other occupations shall 
henceforward fill up my time. I have lived in this day 
the space of years — I came hither a boy — I will return a 
man — a man, such as may converse not only with his own 
kind, but with whatever God permits to be visible to him. 
I will learn the contents of that mysterious volume — I will 
learn why the Lady of Avenel loved it — why the priests 
feared, and would have stolen it — why thou didst twice re- 
cover it from their hands. What mystery is wrapt in it ? — 
Speak, I conjure thee ! ” The lady assumed an air pecul- 
iarly sad and solemn, as drooping her head, and folding her 
arms on her bosom, she replied : 


“ Within that awful volume lies To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, 

The mystery of mysteries ! To lift the latch, and force the way ; 

Happiest they of human race, And better had they ne’er been born, 
To whom God has granted grace Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.” 


“Give me the volume, Lady,” said young Glendinning. 
“They call me idle — they call me dull — in this pursuit my 
industry shall not fail, nor, with God’s blessing, shall my 
understanding. Give me the volume.” The apparition 
again replied : 


“ Many a fathom dark and deep 
I have laid the book to sleep ; 
Ethereal fires around it glowing — 
Ethereal music ever flowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heav’n 
All things revere, 

Each in his sphere, 

Save man for whom ’twas given : 
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne’er seen by mortal eye.” 


Halbert Glendinning boldly reached his hand to the 
White Lady. 


144 


THE MuNASTERY. 


“Fearest thou to go with me?” she said, as his hand 
trembled at the soft and cold touch of her own — 

“ Fearest thou to go with me? 

Still it is free to thee 
A peasant to dwell ; 

Thou mayest drive the dull steer, 

And chase the king’s deer, 

But never more come near 
This haunted well.” 

“If what thou sayest be true/’ said the undaunted boy, 
“my destinies are higher than thine own. There shall be 
neither well nor wood which I dare not visit. No fear of 
aught, natural or supernatural, shall bar my path through 
my native valley.” 

He had scarce uttered the words, when they both de- 
scended through the earth with a rapidity which took away 
Halbert’s breath and every other sensation, saving that of 
being hurried on with the utmost velocity. At length they 
stopped with a shock so sudden, that the mortal journeyer 
through this unknown space must have been thrown down 
with violence, had he not been upheld by his supernatural 
companion. 

It was more than a minute, ere, looking around him, he 
beheld a grotto, or natural cavern, composed of the most 
splendid spars and crystals, which returned in a thousand 
prismatic hues the light of a brilliant flame that glowed on 
an altar of alabaster. This altar, with its fire, formed the 
central point of the grotto, which was of a round form, and 
very high in the roof, resembling in some respects the 
dome of a cathedral. Corresponding to the four points of 
the compass, there went off four long galleries, or arcades, 
constructed of the same brilliant materials with the dome 
itself, and the termination of which was lost in dark- 
ness. 

No human imagination can conceive, or words suffice to 
describe, the glorious radiance which, shot fiercely forth 
by the flame, was returned from so many hundred thou- 
sand points of reflection, afforded by the sparry pillars and 
their numerous angular crystals. The fire itself did not 
remain steady and unmoved, but rose and fell, sometimes 
ascending in a brilliant pyramid of condensed flame half- 
way up the lofty expanse, and again fading into a softer 
and more rosy hue, and hovering, as it were, on the surface 
of the altar to collect its strength for another powerful ex- 


THE MONASTERY. 


145 

ertion. There was no visible fuel by which it was fed, nor 
did it emit either smoke or vapor of any kind. 

What was of all the most remarkable, the black volume 
so often mentioned lay not only unconsumed, but un- 
touched in the slightest degree, amid this intensity of fire, 
which, while it seemed to be of force sufficient to melt 
adamant, had no effect whatever on the sacred book thus 
subjected to its utmost influence. 

The White Lady, having paused long enough to let 
young Glendinning take a complete survey of what was 
around him, now said in her usual chant, 


“ Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought ; 

Touch it, and take it, — ’twill dearly be bought ! ” 

Familiarized in some degree with marvels, and desper- 
ately desirous of showing the courage he had boasted, 
Halbert plunged his hand, without hesitation, into the 
flame, trusting to the rapidity of the motion, to snatch out 
the volume before the fire could greatly affect him. But 
he was much disappointed. The flame instantly caught 
upon his sleeve, and though he withdrew his hand imme- 
diately, yet his arm was so dreadfully scorched, that he 
had well-nigh screamed with pain. He suppressed the 
natural expression of anguish, however, and only intimated 
the agony which he felt by a contortion and a muttered 
groan. The White Lady passed her cold hand over his 
arm, and, ere she had finished the following metrical 
chant, his pain had entirely gone, and no mark of the 
scorching was visible : 

“Rash thy deed, 

Mortal weed 

To immortal flames applying ; 

Rasher trust 
Has thing of dust, 

On his own weak worth relying : 

Strip thee of such fences vain, 

Strip, and prove thy luck again.” 

Obedient to what he understood to be the meaning of 
his conductress, Halbert bared his arm to the shoulder, 
throwing down the remains of his sleeve, which no sooner 
touched the floor on which he stood than it collected itself 
together, shrivelled itself up, and was without any visible 
fire reduced to light tinder, which a sudden breath of 
10 


146 


THE MONASTERY. 


wind dispersed into empty space. The White Lady, ot> 
serving the surprise of the youth, immediately repeated— ^ 

“ Mortal warp and mortal woof, 

Cannot brook this charmed roof ; 

All that mortal art hath wrought, 

In our cell returns to nought. 

The molten gold returns to clay, 

The polish’d diamond melts away; 

All is alter’d, all is flown, 

Nought stands fast but truth alone. 

Not for that thy quest give o’er : 

Courage ! prove thy chance once more.” 

Emboldened by her words, Halbert Glendinning made a 
second effort, and, plunging his bare arm into the flame, 
took out the sacred volume without feeling either heat or 
inconvenience of any kind. Astonished, and almost terri- 
fied at his own success, he beheld the flame collect itself, 
and shoot up into one long and final stream, which seemed 
as if it would ascend to the very roof of the cavern, and 
then, sinking as suddenly, become totally extinguished. 
The deepest darkness ensued ; but Halbert had no time to 
consider his situation, for the White Lady had already 
caught his hand, and they ascended to upper air with the 
same velocity with which they had sunk into the earth. 

They stood by the fountain in the Corri-nan-shian when 
they emerged from the bowels of the earth ; but on casting 
a bewildered glance around him, the youth was surprised 
to observe that the shadows had fallen far to the east, and 
that the day was well-nigh spent. He gazed on his con- 
ductress for explanation, but her figure began to fade be- 
fore his eyes — her cheeks grew paler, her features less dis- 
tinct, her form became shadowy, and blended itself with 
the mist which was ascending the hollow ravine. What 
had late the symmetry of form, and the delicate, yet clear 
hues of feminine beauty, now resembled the flitting and 
pale ghost of some maiden who has died for love, as it is 
seen indistinctly and by moonlight, by her perjured lover. 

“ Stay, spirit ! ” said the youth, emboldened by his suc- 
cess in the subterranean dome, “thy kindness must not 
leave me, as one encumbered with a weapon he knows not 
how to wield. Thou must teach me the art to read and 
to understand this volume ; else what avails it me that I 
possess it ? ” 

But the figure of the White Lady still waned before his 
eye, until it became an outline as pale and indistinct as 


THE MONASTERY. 


r 47 


that of the moon when the winter morning is far advanced, 
and ere she had ended the following chant, she was entire- 
ly invisible : — 


“Alas! alas! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace : 

Idle forms of painted air, 

Not to us is given to share 
The boon bestow’d on Adam’s race ! 

With patience bide, 

Heaven will provide 
The fitting time, the fitting guide.” 

The form was already gone, and now the voice itself har 
melted away in melancholy cadence, softening, as if the 
Being who spoke had been slowly wafted from the spot 
where she had commenced her melody. 

It was at this moment that Halbert felt the extremity of 
the terror which he had hitherto so manfully suppressed. 
The very necessity of exertion had given him spirit to 
make it, and the presence of the mysterious Being, while 
it was a subject of fear in itself, had nevertheless given 
him the sense of protection being near to him. It was 
when he could reflect with composure on what had passed, 
that a cold tremor shot across his limbs, his hair bristled, 
and he was afraid to look around lest he should find at his 
elbow something more frightful than the first vision. A 
breeze arisen suddenly realized the beautiful and wild idea 
of the most imaginative of our modern bards.* — 

It farm’d his cheek, it raised his hair, 

Like a meadow gale in spring ; 

It mingled strangely with his fears, 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

The youth stood silent and astonished for a few minutes. 
It seemed to him that the extraordinary Being he had 
seen, half his terror, half his protectress, was still hovering 
on the gale which swept past him, and that she might 
again make herself sensible to his organs of sight. 
“Speak!” he said, wildly tossing his arms, “speak yet 
again — be once more present, lovely vision ! — thrice have 
I now seen thee, yet the idea of thy invisible presence 
around or beside me, makes my heart beat faster than if 
the earth yawned and gave up a demon.” 

* Coleridge. 


148 


THE MONASTERY. 


But neither sound nor appearance indicated the pres- 
ence of the White Lady, and nothing preternatural be- 
yond what he had already witnessed, was again audible 01 
visible. Halbert, in the meanwhile, by the very exertion 
of again inviting the presence of this mysterious Being, 
had recovered his natural audacity. He looked around 
once more, and resumed his solitary path down the valley 
into whose recesses he had penetrated. 

Nothing could be more strongly contrasted than the 
storm of passion with which he had bounded over stock and 
crag, in order to plunge himself into the Corri-nan-shian, 
and the sobered mood in which he now returned home- 
ward, industriously seeking out the most practicable path, 
not from a wish to avoid danger, but that he might not by 
personal toil distract his attention, deeply fixed on the 
extraordinary scene which he had witnessed. In the form- 
er case he had sought, by hazard and bodily exertion, to 
indulge at once the fiery excitation of passion, and to ban- 
ish the cause of the excitement from his recollection ; 
while now he studiously avoided all interruption to his 
contemplative walk, lest the difficulty of the way should 
interfere with, or disturb his own deep reflections. Thus 
slowly pacing forth his course, with the air of a pilgrim 
rather than of a deer-hunter, Halbert, about the close of 
the evening, regained his paternal tower. 


CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 

The Miller was of manly make. 

To meet him was na mows ; 

There durst na ten come him to take, 

Sae noited he their pows. 

Christ’s Kirk on the Green. 

It was after sunset; as we have already stated, when 
Halbert Glendinning returned to the abode of his father. 
The hour of dinner was at noon, and that of supper about 
an hour after sunset at this period of the year. The former 
had passed without Halbert’s appearing ; but this was no 
uncommon circumstance, for the chase, or any other pas- 
time which occurred, made Halbert a frequent neglecter of 
hours ; and his mother, though angry and disappointed 
when she saw him not at table, was so much accustomed to 
his occasional absence, and knew so little how to teach him 


THE MONASTERY. 


149 


more regularity, that a testy observation was almost all the 
censure with which such omissions were visited. 

On the present occasion, however, the wrath of good 
Dame Elspeth soared higher than usual. It was not merely 
on account of the special tup’s head and trotters, the hag- 
gis and the side of mutton, with which her table was set 
forth, but also because of the arrival of no less a person 
than Hob Miller, as he was universally termed, though the 
man’s name was Happen 

The object of the Miller’s visit to the Tower of Glen- 
dearg was like the purpose of those embassies which poten- 
tates send to each other’s courts, partly ostensible, partly 
politic. In outward show, Hob came to visit his friends of 
the Halidome, and share the festivity common among 
country folk, after the barn-yard has been filled, and to re- 
new old intimacies by new conviviality. But in very truth 
he also came to have an eye upon the contents of each 
stack, and to obtain such information respecting the extent 
of the crop reaped and gathered in byeachfeuar, as might 
prevent the possibility of abstracted multures. 

All the world knows that the cultivators of each barony 
or regality, temporal or spiritual, in Scotland, are obliged 
to bring their corn to be grinded at the mill of the territory, 
for which they pay a heavy charge, called the intown mul- 
tures. I could speak to the thirlage of invecta et illata too, 
but let that pass. I have said enough to intimate that I 
talk not without book. Those of the Sucken , or enthralled 
ground, were liable in penalties, if, deviating from this 
thirlage (or thraldom), they carried their grain to another 
mill. Now such another mill, erected on the lands of a 
lay-baron, lay within a tempting and convenient distance 
of Glendearg ; and (he Miller was so obliging and his 
charges so moderate, that it required blob Miller’s utmost 
vigilance to prevent evasions of his right of monopoly. 

The most effectual means he could devise was this show 
of good fellowship and neighborly friendship — under color 
of which he made his annual cruise through the barony — 
numbered every corn-stack, and computed its contents by 
the boll, so that he could give a shrewd hint afterward 
whether or not the grist came to the right mill. 

Dame Elspeth, like her compeers, was obliged to take 
these domiciliary visits in the sense of politeness ; but in 
her case they had not occurred since her husband’s death, 
probably because the Tower of Glendearg was distant, and 
there was but a trifling quantity of arable or infield land at- 


THE MONASTERY. 


150 

tached to it. This year there had been, upon some specu- 
lation of old Martin’s, several bolls sold in the outfield, 
which, the season being fine, had ripened remarkably well. 
Perhaps this circumstance occasioned the honest Miller’s 
including Glendearg, on this occasion, in his annual 
round. 

Dame Glendinning received with pleasure a visit which 
she used formerly only to endure with patience ; and she 
had changed her view of the matter chiefly, if not entirely, 
because Hob had brought with him his daughter Mysie, of 
whose features she could give so slight an account, but 
whose dress she had described so accurately to the Sub^ 
Prior. 

Hitherto this girl had been an object of very trifling con- 
sideration in the eyes of the good widow ; but the Sub- 
Prior’s particular and somewhat mysterious inquiries had 
set her brains to work on the subject of Mysie of the Mill ; 
and she had here asked a broad question, and there she 
had thrown out an innuendo, and there again she had grad- 
ually led on to a conversation on the subject of poor Mysie. 
And from all inquiries and investigations she had collected, 
that Mysie was a dark-eyed, laughter-loving wench, with 
cherry-cheeks, and a skin as white as her father’s finest 
bolted flour, out of which was made the Abbot’s own was- 
tel-bread. For her temper, she sung and laughed from 
morning to night ; and for her fortune, a material article, 
besides that which the Miller might have amassed by means 
of his proverbial golden thumb, Mysie was to inherit a 
good handsome lump of land, with a prospect of the mill 
and mill-acres descending to her husband on an easy lease, 
if a fair word were spoken in season to the Abbot, and to 
the Prior, and to the Sub-Prior, and to the Sacristan, and 
so forth. 

By turning and again turning these advantages over in 
her own mind, Elspeth at length came to be of opinion, 
that the only way to save her son Halbert from a life of 
“spur, spear, and snaffle,” as they called that of the border- 
riders, from the dint of a cloth-yard shaft, or the loop of 
an inch cord, was, that he should marry and settle, and 
that Mysie Happer should be his destined bride. 

As if to her wish, Hob Miller arrived on his strong-built 
mare, bearing on a pillion behind him the lovely Mysie, 
with cheeks like a peony-rose (if Dame Glendinning had 
ever seen one) spirits all afloat with rustic coquetry, and a 
profusion of hair as black as ebony, The beau-ideal which 


THE MONASTERY. 


r Si 

Dame Glendinning had been bodying forth in her imag- 
ination, became unexpectedly realized in the buxom form 
of Mysie Happer, whom, in the course of half-an-hour, she 
settled upon as the maiden who was to fix the restless and 
untutored Halbert. True, Mysie, as the dame soon saw, 
was like to love dancing round a May-pole as well as man- 
aging a domestic establishment, and Halbert was like to 
break more heads than he would grind stacks of corn. 
But then a miller should always be of manly make, and 
has been described so since the days of Chaucer and 
James I.* Indeed, to be able to outdo and bully the whole 
Sucken (once more we use this barbarous phrase), in all 
athletic exercises, was one way to render easy the collec- 
tion of dues which men would have disputed with a less 
formidable champion. Then, as to the deficiencies of the 
miller’s wife, the dame was of opinion that they might be 
supplied by the activity of the miller’s mother. “ I will 
keep house for the young folk myself, for the tower is 
grown very lonely,” thought Dame Glendinning, “ and to 
live near the kirk will be mair comfortable in my auld age 
- — and then Edward may agree with his brother about the 
ieu, more especially as he is a favorite with the Sub-Prior, 
and then he may live in the auld tower like his worthy 
father before him — and wha kens but Mary Avenel, high- 
blood as she is, may e’en draw in her stool to the chimney- 
nook, and sit down here for good and a’ ? — It’s true she has 
no tocher, but the like of her for beauty and sense ne’er 
crossed myeen ; and I have kend every wench in the Hal- 
idome of Saint Mary’s — ay, and their mothers that bore 
them — ay, she is a sweet and a lovely creature as ever tied 
snood over brown hair — ay, and then, though her uncle 
keeps her out of her airnfor the present time, yet it is to 
be thought the grey-goose shaft will find a hole in his coat 
of~proof, as, God help us ! it has done in many a better 

* The verse we have chosen for a motto to this chapter is from a poem 
imputed to James I. of Scotland. As for the Miller who figures among the 
Canterbury pilgrims, besides his sword and buckler, he boasted other at- 
tributes, all of which, but especially the last, show that he relied more on 
the strength of the outside than that of the inside of his skull. 

The miller was a stout carl for the nones, 

Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones ; 

That proved well, for wheresoe’er he cam, 

At wrestling he wold bear away the ram ; 

He was short shoulder’d, broad, a thick gnar ; 

There n’as no door that he n’old heave of bar, 

Or break it at a running with his head, etc. 


THE MONASTERY, \ 


152 

man’s — And, moreover, if they should stand on their pedi- 
gree and gentle race, Edward might say to them, that is, 
to her gentle kith and kin, ‘ Whilk o’ ye was her best friend 
when she came down the glen to Glendearg in a misty 
evening, on a beast mair like a cuddy than aught else ? ’ — • 
And if they tax him with churl’s blood, Edward might say, 
that, forby the old proverb, how 

Gentle deed 

Makes gentle bleid ; 

yet, moreover, there comes no churl’s blood from Glendin- 
ning or Brydone ; for, says Edward ” 

The hoarse voice of the Miller at this moment recalled 
the dame from her reverie, and compelled her to remem- 
ber that if she meant to realize her airy castle, she must 
begin by laying the foundation in civility to her guest and 
his daughter, whom she was at that moment so strangely 
neglecting, though her whole plan turned on conciliating 
their favor and good opinion, and that, in fact, while ar- 
ranging matters for so intimate a union with her company, 
she was suffering them to sit unnoticed, and in their rid- 
ing gear, as if about to resume their journey. “ And so I 
say, dame,” concluded the Miller (for she had not marked 
the beginning of his speech), “ an’ ye be so busy with 
your housekep, or ought else, why, Mysie and I will trot 
our way down the glen again to Johnnie Broxmouth’s, who 
pressed us right kindly to bide with him.” 

Starting at once from her dream of marriages and inter- 
marriages, mills, mill-lands, and baronies, Dame Elspeth 
felt for a moment like the milkmaid in the fable, when she 
overset the pitcher, on the contents of which so many 
golden dreams were founded. But the foundation of 
Dame Glendinning’s hopes was only tottering, not over- 
thrown, and she hastened to restore its equilibrium. In- 
stead of attempting to account for her absence of mind and 
want of attention to her guests, which she might have 
found something difficult, she assumed the offensive, like 
an able general when he finds it necessary, by a bold at- 
tack, to disguise his weakness. 

A loud exclamation she made, and a passionate complaint 
she set up against the unkindness of her old friend, who 
could for an instant doubt the heartiness of her welcome 
to him and to his hopeful daughter ; and then to think of 
his going back to John Broxmouth’s, when the auld tower 


THE MONASTERY. 


*53 


stood where it did, and had room in it for a friend or two 
in the worst of times — and he too a neighbor that his urn- 
quhile gossip Simon, blessed be his cast, used to think the 
best friend he had in the Halidome ! And on she went 
urging her complaint with so much seriousness, that she 
had well-nigh imposed on herself as well as upon Hob 
Miller, who had no mind to take anything in dudgeon ; 
and as it suited his plans to pass the night at Glendearg, 
would have been equally contented to do so, even had his 
reception been less vehemently hospitable. 

To all Elspeth’s expostulations on the unkindness of his 
proposal to leave her dwelling, he answered composedly, 
“Nay, dame, what could I tell? ye might have had other 
grist to grind, for ye looked as if ye scarce saw us — or 
what know I ? ye might bear in mind the words Martin 
and I had about the last barley ye sawed — for I ken dry 
multures* will sometimes stick in the throat. A man 
seeks but his awn, and yet folk shall hold him for both 
miller and miller’s man, that is miller and knave,*)* all the 
country over.” 

“ Alas, that you will say so, neighbor Hob,” said Dame 
Elspeth, “ or that Martin should have had any words with 
you about the mill-dues ! I will chide him roundly for it, 
I promise you, on the faith of a true widow. You know 
full well that a lone woman is sore put upon by her ser- 
vants.” 

“Nay, dame, ’’.said the miller, unbuckling the broad 
belt which made fast his cloak, and served, at the same 
time, to suspend by his side a swinging Andrea Ferrara, 
“ bear no grudge at Martin, for I bear none — I take it on 
me as a thing of mine office, to maintain my right of mult- 
ure, lock and goupen.J And reason good, for as the old 
song says, 

I live by my mill, God bless her ; 

She’s parent, child, and wife. 

* Dry multures were a fine, or compensation in money, for not grinding 
at the mill of the thirl. It was and is accounted a vexatious exaction. 

•j* The under miller is, in the language of thirlage, called the knave, which, 
indeed, signified originally his lad (. Knabe — German), but by degrees came 
to be taken in a worse sense. In the old translations of the Bible, Paul is 
made to term himself the knave of our Saviour. The allowance of meal 
taken by the miller’s servant was called knaveship. 

% The multure was the regular exaction for grinding the meal. The lock , 
signifying a small quantity, and the goupen, a handful, were additional 
perquisites demanded by the miller, and submitted to or resisted by the 
Suckener as circumstances permitted. These and other petty dues were 
called in general the Sequels. 


154 


THE MONASTERY. 


The poor old slut, I am beholden to her for my living, and 
bound to stand by her, as I say to my mill knaves, in right 
and in wrong. And so should every honest fellow stand 
by his bread-winner. — And so, Mysie, ye may doff your 
cloak since our neighbor is so kindly glad to see us — why, 
I think we are as blithe to see her — not one in the Halh 
dome pays their multures more duly, sequels, arriage and 
carriage, and mill-services, used and wont.” 

With that the Miller hung his ample cloak without far- 
ther ceremony upon a huge pair of stag’s antlers, which 
adorned at once the naked walls of the tower, and served 
for what we vulgarly call cloak-pins. 

In the meantime Dame Elspeth assisted to disembarrass 
the damsel, whom she destined for her future daughter- 
in-law, of her hood, mantle, and the rest of her riding gear, 
giving her to appear as beseemed the buxom daughter of 
the wealthy Miller, gay and goodly, in a white kirtle, the 
seams of which were embroidered with green silken lace 
or fringe, entwined with some silver thread. An anxious 
glance did Elspeth cast upon the good-humored face, 
which was now more fully shown to her, and was only ob- 
scured by a quantity of raven black hair, which the maid 
of the mill had restrained by a snood of green silk, em- 
broidered with silver, corresponding to the trimmings of 
her kirtle. The countenance itself was exceedingly comely 
— the eyes black, large, and roguishly good-humored — 
the mouth was small — the lips well formed, though some- 
what full — the teeth were pearly white — and the chin had 
a very seducing dimple in it. The form belonging to this 
joyous face was full and round, and firm and fair. It might 
become coarse and masculine some years hence, which is 
the common fault of Scottish beauty ; but in Mysie’s six- 
teenth year she had the shape of a Hebe. The anxious 
Elspeth, with all her maternal partiality, could not help 
admitting within herself, that a better man than Halbert 
might go farther and fare worse. She looked a little giddy, 
and Halbert was not nineteen ; still it was time he should 
be settled, for to that point the dame always returned ; and 
here was an excellent opportunity. 

The simple cunning of Dame Elspeth now exhausted 
itself in commendations of her fair guest, from the snood, 
as they say, to the single-soled shoe. Mysie listened and 
blushed with pleasure for the first five minutes ; but ere 
ten had elapsed, she began to view the old lady’s compli- 
ments rather as subjects of mirth than of vanity, and was 


THE MONASTERY. 


155 


much more disposed to laugh at than to be flattered with 
them, for Nature had mingled the good-humor with which 
she had endowed the damsel with no small portion of 
shrewdness. Even Hob himself began to tire of hearing 
his daughter’s praises, and broke in with, “Ay, ay, she is 
a clever quean enough ; and were she five years older, she 
shall lay a loaded sack on an aver * with e’er a lass in the 
Halidome. But I have been looking for your two sons, 
dame. Men say downby that Halbert’s turned a wild 
springald, and that we may have word of him from West- 
moreland one moonlight night or another.” 

“ God forbid, my good neighbor ; God, in his mercy, 
forbid ! ” said Dame Glendinning earnestly ; for it was 
touching the very key-note of her apprehensions to hint 
any probability that Halbert might become one of the 
marauders so common in the age and country. But, fear- 
ful of having betrayed too much alarm on this subject, she 
immediately added, “That though, since the last rout at 
Pinkiecleugh, she had been all of a trernble when a gun 
or a spear was named, or when men spoke of fighting ; 
yet, thanks to God and our Lady, her sons were like to 
live and die honest and peaceful tenants to the Abbey, as 
their father might have done, but for that awful hosting 
which he went forth to with mony a brave man that never 
returned.” 

“ Ye need not tell me of it, dame,” said the Miller, “since 
I was there myself, and made two pair of legs (and these 
were not mine, but my mare’s) worth one pair of hands. 1 
judged how it would be when I saw our host break ranks, 
with rushing on through that broken ploughed field, and 
so as they had made a pricker of me, I e’en pricked off 
with myself while the play was good.” 

“Ay, ay, neighbor,” said the dame, “ye were aye a wise 
and a wary man ; if my Simon had had your wit, he might 
have been here to speak about it this day ; but he was aye 
cracking of his good blood and his high kindred, and less 
would not serve him than to bide the bang to the last, 
with the earls, and knights, and squires, that had no wives 
to greet for them, or else had wives that cared not how 
soon they were widows ; but that is not for the like of us. 
But, touching my son Halbert, there is no fear of him ; for 
if it should be his misfortune to be in the like case, he has 
the best pair of heels in the Halidome, and could run al- 
most as fast as your mare herself.” 

*Avet — properly a horse of labor. 


THE MONASTERY. 


156 

“Is this he, neighbor?” quoth the Miller 

“No,” replied the mother; “that is my youngest son 
Edward, who can read and write like the Lord Abbot him- 
self, if it were not a sin to say so.” 

“Ay,” said the Miller ; “and is that the young clerk the 
Sub-Prior thinks so much of ; they say he will come far 
ben, that lad ; wha kens but he may come to be Sub-Prior 
himself? — as broken a ship has come to land.” 

“ To be a Prior, neighbor Miller,” said Edward, “ a man 
must first be a priest, and for that I judge I have little 
vocation.” 

“ He will take to the pleugh-pettle, neighbor,” said the 
good dame; “and so will Halbert, too, I trust. I wish 
you saw Halbert. — Edward, where is your brother? ” 

“Hunting, I think,” replied Edward ; “at least he left 
us this morning to join the Laird of Colmslie and his 
hounds. I have heard them baying in the glen all day.” 

“And if I had heard that music,” said the Miller, “it 
would have done my heart good, ay, and maybe taken me 
two or three miles out of my road. When I was the Mill- 
er of Morebattle’s knave, I have followed the hounds from 
Eckford to the foot of Hounam Law — followed them on 
foot, Dame Glendinning ; ay, and led the chase when the 
Laird of Cessford and his gay riders were all thrown out 
by the mosses and gills. I brought the stag on my back 
to Hounam Cross, when the dogs had pulled him down. 
I think I see the old gray knight, as he sate so upright on 
his strong war-horse, all white with foam ; and ‘ Miller,’ 
said he to me, ‘an thou wilt turn thy back on the mill, 
and wend with me, I will make a man of thee.’ But I 
chose rather to abide by clap and happer, and the better 
luck was mine ; for the proud Percy caused hang five of 
the Laird’s henchmen at Alnwick for burning a rickle of 
houses some gate beyond Fowberry, and it might have 
been my luck as well as another man’s.” 

“Ah, neighbor, neighbor,” said Dame Glendinning, 
“you were aye wise and wary ; but if you like hunting, I 
must say Halbert’s the lad to please you. He hath all 
those fair holiday terms of hawk and hound as ready in 
his mouth as Tom with the tod’s tail, that is the Lord 
Abbot’s ranger.” 

“ Ranges he not homeward at dinner-time, dame,” de- 
manded the Miller ; “ for we call noon the dinner-hour at 
Kennaquhair ? ” 

The widow was forced to admit that even at this im- 


THE MONASTERY. 


!S7 


portant period of the day Halbert was frequently absent ; 
at which the Miller shook his head, intimating at the same 
time some allusion to the proverb of MacFarlane’s geese, 
Which “liked their play better than their meat.”* 

That the delay of dinner might not increase the Miller’s 
disposition to prejudge Halbert, Dame Glendinning called 
hastily on Mary Avenel to take her task of entertaining 
Mysie Happer, while she herself rushed to the kitchen, 
and entering at once into the province of Tibb Tacket, 
rummaged among trenchers and dishes, snatched pots 
from the fire, and placed pans and gridirons on it, accom- 
panying her own feats of personal activity with such a con- 
tinued list of injunctions to Tibb, that Tibb at length lost 
patience, and said, “ Here was as muckle wark about 
meating an auld miller, as if they had been to banquet 
the blood of Bruce.” But this, as it was supposed to be 
spoken aside, Dame Glendinning did not think it conven- 
ient to hear. 


CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. 

Nay, let me have the friends who eat my victuals, 

As various as my dishes. — The feast’s naught, 

Where one huge plate predominates. John Plaintext, 

He shall be mighty beef, our English staple ; 

The worthy Alderman, a butter’d dumpling ; 

Yon pair of whisker’ d Cornets, ruffs and rees: 

Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in sippets. 

And so the board is spread at once and fill’d 

On the same principle — Variety. New Play. 

“And what brave lass is this?” said Hob Miller, as 
Mary Avenel entered the apartment to supply the ab- 
sence of Dame Elspeth Glendinning. 

“ The young Lady of Avenel, father,” said the Maid of 

* A brood of wild geese, which long frequented one of the uppermost 
islands in Loch Lomond called Inch-Tavoe, were supposed to have some 
mysterious connection with the ancient family of MacFarlane of that ilk, 
and it is said were never seen after the ruin and extinction of that house. 
The MacFarlanes had a house and garden upon that same Island of Inch- 
Tavoe. Here James VI. was on one occasion regaled by the chieftain. 
His Majesty had been previously much amused by the geese pursuing each 
other on the loch. But when one which was brought to table was found 
to be tough and ill-fed, James observed — “that MacFarlane’s geese liked 
their play better than their meat,” a proverb which has been current 
ever since. 


i5» 


THE MONASTERY. 


the Mill, dropping as low a courtesy as her rustic man- 
ners enabled her to make. The Miller, her father, doffed 
his bonnet, and made his reverence, not altogether so low 
perhaps as if the young lady had appeared in the pride of 
rank and riches, yet so as to give high birth the due hom- 
age which the Scotch for a length of time scrupulously 
rendered to it. 

Indeed, from having had her mother’s example before 
her for so many years, and from a native sense of propriety 
and even of dignity, Mary Avenel had acquired a de- 
meanor, which marked her title to consideration, and ef- 
fectually checked any attempt at familiarity on the part of 
those who might be her associates in her present situation, 
but could not be well termed her equals. She was by 
nature mild, pensive, and contemplative, gentle in disposi- 
tion, and most placable when accidentally offended ; but 
still she was of a retired and reserved habit, and shunned 
to mix in ordinary sports, even when the rare occurrence 
of a fair or wake gave her an opportunity of mingling with 
companions of her own age. If at such scenes she was 
seen for an instant, she appeared to behold them with the 
composed indifference of one to whom their gayety was a 
matter of no interest, and who seemed only desirous to 
glide away from the scene as soon as she possibly could. 

Something also had transpired concerning her being 
born on All-Hallow Eve, and the powers with which that 
circumstance was supposed to invest her over the invisible 
world. And from all these particulars combined, the 
young men and women of the Halidome used to distin- 
guish Mary among themselves by the name of the Spirit 
of Avenel, as if the fair but fragile form, the beautiful but 
rather colorless cheek, the dark blue eye, and the shady 
hair, had belonged rather to the immaterial than the sub- 
stantial world. The general tradition of the White Lad)", 
who was supposed to wait on the fortunes of the family of 
Avenel, gave a sort of zest to this piece of rural wit. It 
gave great offence, however, to the two sons of Simon 
Glendinning ; and when the expression was in their pres- 
ence applied to the young lady, Edward was wont to check 
the petulance of those who used it by strength of argu- 
ment, and Halbert by strength of arm. In such cases 
Halbert had this advantage, that although he could render 
no aid to his brother’s argument, yet when circumstances 
required it, he was sure to have that of Edward, who never 
indeed himself commenced a fray, but, on the other hand, 


THE MONASTERY. 


159 


did not testify any reluctance to enter into combat in Hal- 
bert’s behalf or in his rescue. 

But the zealous attachment of the two youths, being 
themselves, from the retired situation in which they dwelt, 
comparative strangers in the Halidome, did not serve in 
any degree to alter the feelings of the inhabitants toward 
the young lady, who seemed to have dropt among them 
from another sphere of life. Still, however, she was re- 
garded with respect, if not with fondness ; and the atten- 
tion of the Sub-Prior to the family, not to mention the 
formidable name of Julian Avenel, which every new in- 
cident of those tumultuous times tended to render more 
famous, attached to his niece a certain importance. Thus 
some aspired to her acquaintance out of pride, while the 
more timid of the feuars were anxious to inculcate upon 
their children the necessity of being respectful to the noble 
orphan. So that Mary Avenel, little loved because little 
known, was regarded with a mysterious awe, partly derived 
from fear of her uncle’s moss-troopers, and partly from her 
own retired and distant habits, enhanced by the supersti- 
tious opinions of the time and country. 

It was not without some portion of this awe, that Mysie 
felt herself left alone in company with a young person so 
distant in rank, and so different in bearing, from herself ; 
for her worthy father had taken the first opportunity to 
step out unobserved, in order to mark how the barn-yard 
was filled, and what prospect it afforded of grist to the 
mill. In youth, however, there is a sort of free-masonry, 
which, without much conversation, teaches young persons 
to estimate each other’s character, and places them at ease 
on the shortest acquaintance. It is only when taught de- 
ceit by the commerce of the world, that we learn to shroud 
our character from observation, and to disguise our real 
sentiments from those with whom we are placed in com- 
munion. 

Accordingly, the two young women were soon engaged 
in such objects of interest as best became their age. They 
visited Mary Avenel’s pigeons, which she nursed with the 
tenderness of a mother ; they turned over her slender stores 
of finery, which yet contained some articles that excited 
the respect of her companion, though Mysie was too good- 
humored to nourish envy. A golden rosary, and some fe- 
male ornaments marking superior rank, had been rescued 
in the moment of their utmost adversity, more by Tibb 
Tacket’s presence of mind, than by the care of their owner, 


THE MONASTERY. 


160 

who was at that sad period too much sunk in grief to pay 
any attention to such circumstances. They struck Mysie 
with a deep impression of veneration ; for, excepting what 
the Lord Abbot and the convent might possess, she did not 
believe there was so much real gold in the world as was 
exhibited in these few trinkets, and Mary, however sage 
and serious, was not above being pleased with the admira- 
tion of her rustic companion. 

Nothing, indeed, could exhibit a stronger contrast than 
the appearance of the two girls ; the good-humored laugh- 
ter-loving countenance of the Maid of the Mill, who stood 
gazing with unrepressed astonishment on whatever was in 
her inexperienced eye rare and costly, and with an humble, 
and at the same time cheerful acquiescence in her inferior- 
ity, asking all the little queries about the use and value of 
the ornaments, while Mary Avenel, with her quiet com- 
posed dignity and placidity of manner, produced them one 
after another for the amusement of her companion. 

As they became gradually more familiar, Mysie of the 
Mill was just venturing to ask, why Mary Avenel never 
appeared at the Maypole, and to express her wonder when 
the young lady said she disliked dancing, when a tram- 
pling of horses at the gate of the tower interrupted their 
conversation. 

Mysie flew to the shot-window in the full ardor of un- 
restrained female curiosity. “ Saint Mary ! sweet lady ! 
here come two well-mounted gallants ; will you step this 
way to look at them ? ” 

“No,” said Mary Avenel, “you shall tell me who they 
are.” 

“ Well, if you like it better,” said Mysie — “ but how shall 
1 know them ? Stay, I do know one of them, and so do 
you, lady ; he is a blithe man, somewhat light of hand, 
they say, but the gallants of these days think no great harm 
of that. He is your uncle’s henchman, that they call 
Christie of the Clinthill ; and he has not his old green jer- 
kin and the rusty black-jack over it, but a scarlet cloak, 
laid down with silver lace three inches broad, and a breast- 
plate you might see to dress your hair in, as well as in 
that keeking-glass in the ivory frame that you showed me 
even now. Come, dear lady, come to the shot-window and 
see him.” 

“ If it be the man you mean, Mysie,” replied the orphan 
of Avenel, “ I shall see him soon enough, considering 
either the pleasure or comfort the sight will give me.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


161 

“ Nay, but if you will not come to see gay Christie,” 
replied the Maid of the Mill, her face flushed with eager 
curiosity, “ come and tell me who the gallant is that is 
with him, the handsomest, the very lovesomest young man 
I ever saw with sight.” 

“ It is my foster-brother, Halbert Glendinning,” said 
Mary, with apparent indifference ; for she had been accus- 
tomed to call the sons of Elspeth her foster-brethren, and 
to live with them as if they had been brothers in earnest. 

“ Nay, by Our Lady, that it is not,” said Mysie ; “ I 
know the favor of both the Glendinnings well, and I think 
this rider be not of our country. He has a crimson velvet 
bonnet, and long brown hair falling down under it, and a 
beard on his upper lip, and his chin clean and close 
shaved, save a small patch on the point of the chin, and a 
sky-blue jerkin slashed and lined with white satin, and 
trunk-hose to suit, and no weapon but a rapier and dagger. 
Well, if I was a man, I would never wear weapon but the 
rapier ! it is so slender and becoming, instead of having a 
cartload of iron at my back, like my father’s broadsword 
with its great rusty basket-hilt. Do you not delight in the 
rapier and poniard, lady ? ” 

“The best sword,” answered Mary, “if I must needs 
answer a question of the sort, is that which is drawn in the 
best cause, and which is best used when it is out of the 
scabbard.” 

“ But can you not guess who this stranger should be ? ” 
said Mysie. 

“ Indeed, I cannot even attempt it ; but, to judge by his 
companion, it is no matter how little he is known,” replied 
Mary. 

“ My benison on his bonny face,” said Mysie, “ if he is 
not going to alight here ! Now, I am as much pleased as 
if my father had given me the silver ear-rings he has prom- 
ised me so often ; nay, you had as well come to the win- 
dow, for you must see him by and by whether you will or 
not.” 

I do not know how much sooner Mary A\^enel might 
have sought the point of observation, if she had not been 
scared from it by the unrestrained curiosity expressed by 
her buxom friend ; but at length the same feeling prevailed 
over her sense of dignity, and satisfied with having dis- 
played all the indifference that was necessary in point of 
decorum, she no longer thought herself bound to restrain 
her curiosity. 

ii 


i 62 


THE MONASTERY. 


From the out-shot or projecting window, she could per* 
ceive that Christie of the Clinthill was attended on the 
present occasion by a very gay and gallant cavalier, who 
from the nobleness of his countenance and manner, his 
rich and handsome dress, and the showy appearance of his 
horse and furniture, must, she agreed with her new friend, 
be a person of some consequence. 

Christie also seemed conscious of something, which 
made him call out with more than his usual insolence of 
manner, “ What, ho ! so ho ! the house ! Churl peasants, 
will no one answer when I call ? Ho ! Martin — Tibb — 
Dame Glendinning ! — a murrain on you, must we stand 
keeping our horses in the cold here, and they steaming 
with heat, when we have ridden so sharply ? ” 

At length he was obeyed, and old Martin made his ap- 
pearance. “ Ha ! ” said Christie, “ art thou there, old 
Truepenny ? here, stable me these steeds and see them 
well bedded, and stretch thine old limbs by rubbing them 
down ; and see thou quit not the stable till there is not a 
turned hair on either of them.” 

Martin took the horses to the stable as commanded, but 
suppressed not his indignation a moment after he could 
vent it with safety. “Would not any one think,” he said 
to Jasper, an old ploughman, who, in coming to his assist- 
ance, had heard Christie’s imperious injunctions, “ that 
this loon, this Christie of the Clinthill, was laird or lord at 
least of him ? No such thing, man ! I remember him a 
little dirty turnspit boy in the house of Avenel, that every- 
body in a frosty morning like this warmed his fingers by 
kicking or cuffing! and now he is a gentleman, and swears, 
d — n him and renounce him, as if the gentleman could not 
so much as keep their own wickedness to themselves, with- 
out the like of him going to hell in their very company, 
and by the same road. I have as much a mind as ever I 
had to my dinner, to go back and tell him to sort his horse 
himself, since he is as able as I am.” 

“ Hout tout, man!” answered Jasper, “keep a calm 
sough ; better to fleech a fool than fight with him.” 

Martin acknowledged the truth of the proverb, and 
much comforted therewith, betook himself to cleaning the 
stranger’s horse with great assiduity, remarking, it was a 
pleasure to handle a handsome nag, and turned over the 
other to the charge of Jasper. Nor was it until Christie’s 
commands were literally complied with that he deemed it 
proper, after fitting ablutions, to join the party in the 


THE MONASTERY. 


163 

Spence ; not for the purpose of waiting upon them, as a 
mere modern reader might possibly expect, but that he 
might have his share of dinner in their company. 

In the meanwhile Christie had presented his companion 
to Dame Glendinning as Sir Piercie Shafton, a friend of 
his and of his master, come to spend three or four days 
with little din in the tower. The good dame could not 
conceive how she was entitled to such an honor, and would 
fain have pleaded her want of every sort of convenience to 
entertain a guest of that quality. But, indeed, the visitor, 
when he cast his eyes round the bare walls, eyed the huge 
black chimney, scrutinized the meagre and broken furni- 
ture of the apartment, and beheld the embarrassment of 
the mistress of the family, intimated great reluctance to 
intrude upon Dame Glendinning a visit, which could scarce, 
from all appearances, prove otherwise than an inconven- 
ience to her, and a penance to himself. 

But the reluctant hostess and her guest had to do with 
an inexorable man, who silenced all expostulations with, 
“ such was his master’s pleasure. And, moreover,” he 
continued, “though the Baron of Avenel’s will, must, and 
ought to prove law to all within ten miles around him, yet 
here, dame,” he said, “ is a letter from your petticoated 
baron, the lord-priest yonder, who enjoins you, as you re- 
gard his pleasure, that you afford to this good knight such 
decent accommodation as is in your power, suffering him 
to live as privately as he shall desire. And for you, Sir 
Piercie Shafton,” continued Christie, “you will judge for 
yourself, whether secrecy and safety is not more your ob- 
ject even now, than soft beds and high cheer. And do 
not judge of the dame’s goods by the semblance of her 
cottage ; for you will see by the dinner she is about to 
spread for us, that the vassal of the kirk is seldom found 
with her basket bare.” To Mary Avenel Christie pre- 
sented the stranger, after the best fashion he could, as to 
the niece of his master the baron. 

While he thus labored to reconcile Sir Piercie Shafton 
to his fate, the widow, having consulted her son Edward 
on the real import of the Lord Abbot’s injunction, and 
having found that Christie had given a true exposition, 
saw nothing else left for her but to make that fate as easy 
as she coufd to the stranger. Pie himself also seemed rec- 
onciled to his lot by some feeling probably of strong ne- 
cessity, and accepted with a good grace the hospitality 
which the dame offered with a very indifferent one. 


164 


THE MONASTERY. 


In fact, the dinner, which soon smoked before the as- 
sembled guests, was of that substantial kind which warrants 
plenty and comfort. Dame Glendinning had cooked it 
after her best manner ; and, delighted with the handsome 
appearance which her good cheer made when placed on 
the table, forgot both her plans and the vexations which 
interrupted them, in the hospitable duty of pressing her 
assembled visitors to eat and drink, watching every trench- 
er as it waxed empty, and loading it with fresh supplies 
ere the guest could utter a negative. 

In the meanwhile, the company attentively regarded 
each other’s motions, and seemed endeavoring to form a 
judgment of each other’s character. Sir Piercie Shafton 
condescended to speak to no one but to Mary Avenel, and 
on her he conferred exactly the same familiar and com- 
passionate, though somewhat scornful sort of attention, 
which a pretty fellow of these days will sometimes con- 
descend to bestow on a country miss, when there is no 
prettier or more fashionable woman present. The manner 
indeed was different, for the etiquette of those times did 
not permit Sir Piercie Shafton to pick his teeth, or to 
yawn, or to gabble like the beggar whose tonguh (as he 
says) was cut out by the Turks, or to affect deafness or 
blindness, or any other infirmity of the organs. But 
though the embroidery of his conversation was different, 
the groundwork was the same, and the high-flown and or- 
nate compliments with which the gallant knight of the 
sixteenth century interlarded his conversation, were as 
much the offspring of egotism and self-conceit, as the jar- 
gon of the coxcombs of our own days. 

The English knight was, however, something daunted at 
finding that Mary Avenel listened with an air of indiffer- 
ence, and answered with wonderful brevity, to all the fine 
things which ought, as he conceived, to have dazzled her 
with their brilliancy, and puzzled her by their obscurity. 
But if he was disappointed in making the desired, or rather 
the expected impression, upon her whom he addressed, Sir 
Piercie Shafton ’s discourse was marvellous in the ears of 
Mysie the Miller’s daughter, and not the less so that she 
did not comprehend the meaning of a single word which 
he uttered. Indeed, the gallant knight’s language was far 
too courtly to be understood by persons of much greater 
acuteness than Mysie’s. 

It was about this period, that the “only rare poet of his 
time, the witty, comical, facetiously-quick, and quickly- 


THE MONASTERY. 


165 

facetious, John Lyly — he that sat at Apollo’s table, and 
to whom Phoebus gave a wreath of his own bays without 
snatching ” * — he, in short, who wrote that singularly cox- 
combical work called Euphues and his England , was in the 
very zenith of his absurdity and reputation. The quaint, 
forced, and unnatural style which he introduced by his 
Anatomy of Wit , had a fashion as rapid as it was momen- 
tary — all the court ladies were his scholars, and to “ parler 
Euphuisme,” was as necessary a qualification to a courtly 
gallant, as those of understanding how to use his rapier or 
to dance a measure, f 

It was no wonder that the Maid of the Mill was soon as 
effectually blinded by the intricacies of this erudite and 
courtly style of conversation, as she had ever been by the 
dust of her father’s own meal-sacks. But there she sat 
with her mouth and eyes as open as the mill-door and 
the two windows, showing teeth as white as her father’s 
bolted flour, and endeavoring to secure a word or two for 
her own future use out of the pearls of rhetoric which Sir 
Piercie Shafton scattered around him with such bounteous 
profusion. 

For the male part of the company, Edward felt ashamed 
of his own manner and slowness of speech, when he ob- 
served the handsome young courtier, with an ease and 
volubility of which lie had no conception, run over all 
the commonplace topics of high-flown gallantry. It is 
true the good sense and natural taste of young Glendin- 
ning soon informed him that the gallant cavalier was 
speaking nonsense. But, alas ! where is the man of mod- 
est merit, and real talent, who has not suffered from being 
outshone in conversation, and outstripped in the race of 
life, by men of less reserve, and of qualities more showy, 
though less substantial ? and well constituted must the mind 
be that can yield up the prize without envy to competitors 
more unworthy than himself. 

Edward Glendinning had no such philosophy. While 
he despised the jargon of the gay cavalier, he envied the 
facility with which he could run on, as well as the courtly 

* Such, and yet more extravagant, are the compliments paid to this 
author by his editor, Blount. Notwithstanding all exaggeration, Lyly was 
really a man of wit and imagination, though both were deformed by the 
most unnatural affectation that ever disgraced a printed page. 

f [The Author, in a note to Chapter xxix., says the readers of romances 
are indifferent to accurate reference : otherwise some anachronisms might 
be noticed here — Euphues ; the Anatomy oj IVit, and Euphues and his 
England , by John Lyly, were not published till 1581.] 


1 66 


THE MONASTERY. 


tone and expression, and the perfect ease and elegance 
with which he offered all the little acts of politeness to 
which the duties of the table gave opportunity. And if I 
am to speak truth, I must own that he envied those quali- 
ties the more as they were all exercised in Mary Avenel’s 
service, and, although only so far accepted as they could 
not be refused, intimated a wish on the stranger’s part to 
place himself in her good graces, as the only person in the 
room to whom he thought it worth while to recommend 
himself. His title, rank, and very handsome figure, to- 
gether with some sparks of wit and spirit which flashed 
across the cloud of nonsense which he uttered, rendered 
him, as the words of the old song sav, “a lad for a lady’s 
viewing ; ” so that poor Edward, with all his real worth 
and acquired knowledge, in his home-spun doublet, blue 
cap, and deer-skin trousers, looked liked a clown beside 
the courtier, and, feeling the full inferiority, nourished no 
good-will to him by whom he was eclipsed. 

Christie, on the other hand, as soon as he had satisfied 
to the full a commodious appetite, by means of which 
persons of his profession could, like the wolf and eagle, 
gorge themselves with as much food at one meal as might 
serve them for several days, began also to feel himself 
more in the background than he liked to be. This worthy 
had, among his other good qualities, an excellent opinion 
of himself ; and, being of a bold and forward disposition, 
had no mind to be thrown into the shade by any one. 
With an impudent familiarity, which such persons mistake 
for graceful ease, he broke in upon the knight’s finest 
speeches with as little remorse as he would have driven 
the point of his lance through a laced doublet. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, a man of rank and high birth, by 
no means encouraged or endured this familiarity, and re- 
quited the intruder either with total neglect, or such 
laconic replies as intimated a sovereign contempt for the 
rude spearman, who affected to converse with him upon 
terms of equality. 

The Miller held his peace ; for, as his usual conversa- 
tion turned chiefly on his clapper and toll-dish, he had 
no mind to brag of his wealth in presence of Christie of 
the Ciinthill, or to intrude his discourse on the English 
cavalier. 

A little specimen of the conversation may not be out of 
place, were it but to show young ladies what fine things 
they have lost by living when Euphuism is out of fashion. 


THE MONASTERY. 


167 


“ Credit me, fairest lady,” said the knight, “that such is 
the cunning of our English courtiers, of the hodiernal 
strain, that, as they have infinitely refined upon the plain 
and rusticial discourse of our fathers, which, as I may say, 
more beseemed the mouths of country roisterers in a May- 
game than that of courtly gallants in a galliard, so I hold 
it ineffably and unutterably impossible, that those who 
may succeed us in that garden of wit and courtesy shall 
alter or amend it. Venus delighted but in the language 
of Mercury, Bucephalus will stoop to no one but Alex- 
ander, none can sound Apollo’s pipe but Orpheus.” 

“ Valiant sir,” said Mary, who could scarcely help laugh- 
ing, “ we have but to rejoice in the chance which hath 
honored this solitude with a glimpse of the sun of cour- 
tesy, though it rather blinds than enlightens us.” 

“Pretty and quaint, fairest lady,” answered the Euphu- 
ist. “Ah, that I had with me my Anatomy of Wit — that 
all-to-be-unparalleled volume — that quintessence of human 
wit — that treasury of quaint invention — that exquisitely- 
pleasant-to-read, and inevitably-necessary-to-be-remem- 
bered manual of all that is worthy to be known — which 
indoctrines the rude in civility, the dull in intellectuality, 
the heavy in jocosity, the blunt in gentility, the vulgar in 
nobility, and all of them in that unutterable perfection of 
human utterance, that eloquence which no other elo- 
quence is sufficient to praise, that art which, when we call 
it by its own name of Euphuism, we bestow on it its rich- 
est panegyric.” 

“ By Saint Mary,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “ if your 
worship had told me that you had left such stores of 
wealth as you talk of at Prudhoe Castle, Long Dickie and 
I would have had them off with us if man and horse could 
have carried them ; but you told us of no treasure I wot 
of, save the silver tongs for turning up your mustachoes.” 

The knight treated this intruder’s mistake — for cer- 
tainly Christie had no idea that all these epithets, which 
sounded so rich and splendid, were lavished upon a small 
quarto volume — with a stare, and then turning again to 
Mary Avenel, the only person whom he thought worthy to 
address, he proceeded in his strain of high-flown oratory, 
“Even thus,” said he, “do hogs contemn the splendor of 
Oriental pearls ; even thus are the delicacies of a choice 
repast in vain offered to the long-eared grazer of the com- 
mon, who turneth from them to devour a thistle. Surely 
as idle is it to pour forth the treasures of oratory before 


i68 


THE MONASTERY. 


the eyes of the ignorant, and to spread the dainties of the 
intellectual banquet before those who are, morally and 
metaphysically speaking, no better than asses.” 

“Sir Knight, since that is your quality,” said Edward, 
“we cannot strive with you in loftiness of language ; but I 
pray you in fair courtesy, while you honor my father’s 
house with your presence, to spare us such vile compari- 
sons.” 

“Peace, good villagio,” said the knight, gracefully wav- 
ing his hand, “ I prithee peace, kind rustic ; and you, my 
guide, whom I may scarce call honest, let me prevail upon 
you to imitate the laudable taciturnity of that honest yeo- 
man, who sits as mute as a mill-post, and of that comely 
damsel, who seems as with her ears she drank in what she 
did not altogether comprehend, even as a palfrey listening 
to a lute, whereof, howsoever, he knoweth not the gamut.” 

“ Marvellous fine words,” at length said Dame Glendin- 
ning, who began to be tired of sitting so long silent, “ mar- 
vellous line words, neighbor Happer, are they not ? ” 

“ Brave words — very brave words — very exceeding pyet 
words,” answered the Miller ; “ nevertheless, to speak my 
mind, a lippy of bran were worth a bushel of them.” 

“ I think so too, under his worship’s favor,” answered 
Christie of the Clinthill. “ I well remember that at the 
race of Morham, as we call it, near Berwick, I took a 
young Southern fellow out of saddle with my lance, and 
cast him, it might be, a gad’s length from his nag ; and so, 
as he had some gold on his laced doublet, I deemed he 
might ha’ the like on it in his pocket too, though that is a 
rule that does not aye hold good — So I was speaking to him 
of ransom, and out he comes with a handful of such terms 
as his honor there hath gleaned up, and craved me for 
mercy, as I was a true son of Mars, and suchlike.” 

“And obtained no mercy at thy hand, I dare be sworn,” 
said the knight, who deigned not to speak Euphuism ex- 
cepting to the fair sex. 

“ By my troggs,” replied Christie, “ I would have thrust 
my lance down his throat, but just then they flung open 
that accursed postern-gate, and forth pricked old Hunsdon 
and Henry Carey, and as many fellows at their heels as 
turned the chase northward again. So I e’en pricked Bay- 
ard with the spur, and went off with the rest ; for a man 
should ride when he may not wrestle, as they say in Tyne- 
dale.” 

“Trust me,” said the knight, again turning to Mary 


THE MONASTERY. 


169 


Avenel, “ if I do not pity you, lady, who, being of noble 
blood, are thus in a manner compelled to abide in the cot- 
tage of the ignorant, like the precious stone in the head of 
the toad, or like a precious garland on the brow of an ass. 
— But soft, what gallant have we here, whose garb savoreth 
more of the rustic than doth his demeanor, and whose 
looks seem more lofty than his habit ; even as ” 

“I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Mary, “to spare your 
courtly similitudes for refined ears, and give me leave to 
name unto you my foster-brother, Halbert Glendintiing.” 

“ The son of the good dame of the cottage, as I opine,” 
answered the English knight ; “ for by some such name did 
my guide discriminate the mistress of this mansion, which 
you, madam, enrich with your presence. — And yet, touch- 
ing this juvenal, he hath that about him which belongeth 
to higher birth, for all are not black who dig coals 

“Nor all white who are millers,” said honest Happer, 
glad to get in a word, as they say, edgeways. 

Halbert, who had sustained the glance of the English- 
man with some impatience, and knew not what to make of 
his manner and language, replied with some asperity, “Sir 
Knight, we have in this* land of Scotland an ancient say- 
ing, ‘ Scorn not the bush that bields you ’ — your are a guest 
of my father’s house to shelter you from danger, if 1 am 
rightly informed by the domestics. Scoff not its homeli- 
ness, nor that of its inmates — ye might long have abidden 
at the court of England ere we had sought your favor, or 
cumbered you with our society. Since your fate has sent 
you hither amongst us, be contented with such fare and 
such converse as we can afford you, and scorn us not for 
our kindness for the Scots wear short patience and long 
daggers.” 

All eyes were turned on Halbert while he was thus 
speaking, and there was a general feeling that his counte- 
nance had an expression of intelligence, and his person an 
air of dignity, which they had never before observed. 
Whether it were that the wonderful Being with whom he 
had so lately held communication, had bestowed on him a 
grace and dignity of look and bearing which he had not 
before, or whether the being conversant in high matters, 
and called to a destiny beyond that of other men, had a 
natural effect in giving becoming confidence to his lan- 
guage and manner, we pretend not to determine. But it 
was evident to all, that from this day young Halbert was 
an altered man ; that he acted with a steadiness, prompti- 


170 


THE MONASTERY. 


tude, and determination, which belonged to riper year^ 
and bore himself with a manner which appertained to 
higher rank. 

The knight took the rebuke with good humor. “ By 
mine honor,” he said, “thou hast reason on thy side, good 
juvenal — nevertheless, I spoke not as in ridicule of the 
roof which relieves me, but rather in your own praise, to 
whom, if this roof be native, thou mayest nevertheless rise 
from its lowliness ; even as the lark, which maketh its 
humble nest in the furrow, ascendeth toward the sun, as 
well as the eagle which buildeth her eyry in the cliff.” 

This high-flown discourse was interrupted by Dame 
Glendinning, who, with all the busy anxiety of a mother, 
was loading her son’s trencher with food, and dinning in 
his ear her reproaches on account of his prolonged ab- 
sence. “ And see,” she said, “ that you do not one day get 
such a sight, while you are walking about among the 
haunts of them that are not of our flesh and bone, as befell 
Mungo Murray when he slept on the greensward ring of 
the Auld Kirkhill at sunset, and wakened at daybreak in 
the wild hills of Breadalbane. And see that, when you are 
looking for deer, the red stag does not gall you as he did 
Diccon Thorburn, who never overcast the wound that he 
took from a buck’s horn. And see, when you go swagger- 
ing about with a long broadsword by your side, whilk it 
becomes no peaceful man to do, that ye dinna meet with 
them that have broadsword and lance both — there are enow 
of rank riders in this land, that neither fear God nor re- 
gard man.” 

Here her eye, “ in a fine frenzy rolling,” fell full upon 
that of Christie of the Clin thill, and at once her fears for 
having given offence interrupted the current of maternal 
rebuke, which, like rebuke matrimonial, may be often better 
meant than timed. There was something of sly and watch- 
ful significance in Christie’s eye, an eye gray, keen, fierce, 
yet wily, formed to express at once cunning and malice, 
which made the dame instantly conjecture she had said too 
much, while she saw. in imagination her twelve goodly 
cows go lowing down the glen in a moonlight night, with 
half a score of Border spearmen at their heels. 

Her voice, therefore, sunk from the elevated tone of 
maternal authority into a whimpering, apologetic sort of 
strain, and she proceeded to say, “It is no that I have ony 
ill thoughts of the Border riders, for Tibb Tacket there 
has often heard me say that I thought spear and bridle as 


THE MONASTERY. 


171 


natural to a Borderman as a pen to a priest, or a feather 
fan to a lady ; and — have you not heard me say it, Tibb ? ” 

Tibb showed something less than her expected alacrity 
in attesting her mistress’s deep respect for the freebooters 
of the southland hills ; but thus conjured, did at length 
reply, “ Hout, a\v mistress, I’se warrant I have heard you 
say something like that.” 

“ Mother ! ” said Halbert, in a firm and commanding 
tone of voice, “what or whom is it that you fear under my 
father’s roof ? — I well hope that it harbors not a guest in 
whose presence you are afraid to say your pleasure to me 
or my brother ? I am sorry I have been detained so late, 
being ignorant of the fair company which I should encoun- 
ter on my return. I pray you let this excuse suffice ; and 
what satisfies you, will, I trust, be nothing less than ac- 
ceptable to your guests.” 

An answer calculated so justly betwixt the submission 
due to his parent, and the natural feeling of dignity in one 
who was by birth master of the mansion, excited universal 
satisfaction. And as Elspeth herself confessed to Tibb on 
the same evening, “ She did not think it had been in the 
callant. Till that night he took pets and passions if he 
was spoke to, and lap through the house like a four- 
year-auld at the least word of advice that was minted at 
him, but now he spoke as grave and as douce as the Lord 
Abbot himself. She kendna,” she said, “ what might be 
the upshot of it, but it was like he was a wonderfu’ callant 
even now.” 

The party then separated, the young men retiring to 
their apartments, the elder to their household cares. While 
Christie went to see his horse properly accommodated, 
Edward betook himself to his book, and Halbert, who was 
as ingenious in employing his hands as he had hitherto 
appeared imperfect in mental exertion, applied himself to 
constructing a place of concealment in the floor of his 
apartment by raising a plank, beneath which he resolved 
to deposit that copy of the Holy Scriptures which had been 
so strangely regained from the possession of men and 
spirits. 

In the meanwhile Sir Piercie Shafton sat still as a stone, 
in the chair in which he had deposited himself, his hands 
folded on his breast, his legs stretched straight out before 
him and resting upon the heels, his eyes cast up to the 
ceiling as if he had meant to count every mesh of every 
cobweb with which the arched roof was canopied, wearing 


172 


THE MONASTERY. 


at the same time a face of as solemn and imperturbable 
gravity, as if his existence had depended on the accuracy 
of his calculation. 

He could scarce be roused from his listless state of con- 
templative absorption so as to take some supper, a meal 
at which the younger females appeared not. Sir Piercie 
stared around twice or thrice as if he missed something; 
but he asked not for them, and only evinced his sense of 
a proper audience being wanting, by his abstraction and 
absence of mind, seldom speaking until he was twice ad- 
dressed, and then replying, without trope or figure, in that 
plain English, which nobody could speak better when he 
had a mind. 

Christie, finding himself in undisturbed possession of 
the conversation, indulged all who chose to listen with 
details of his own wild and inglorious warfare, while Dame 
Elspeth’s curch bristled with horror, and Tibb Tacket, 
rejoiced to find herself once more in the company of a 
jack-man, listened to his tales, like Desdemona to Othello’s, 
with undisguised delight. Meantime the two young Glen- 
dinnings were each wrapped up in his own reflections, 
and only interrupted in them by the signal to move bed- 
ward. 


CHAPTER FIFTEENTH 

He strikes no coin, ' tis true, but coins new phrases. 

And vends them forth as knaves vend gilded counters, 

VVhich wise men se.rn. and fools accept in payment. 

Oi.d Play. 

In the morning Christie ot tne Clinthili was nowhere 
to be seen. As this worthy personage did seldom pique 
himself on sounding a trumpet before his movements, no 
one was surprised at his moonlight departure, though 
some alarm was excited lest he had not made it empty- 
handed. So in the language of the national ballad, 

Some ran to cupboard, and some to kist, 

But nought was away that could be mist. 

All was in order, the key of the stable left above the door, 
and that of the iron grate in the inside of the lock In 
short, the retreat had been made with scrupulous attention 
to the security of the garrison, and so far Christie left 
them nothing to complain of. 


THE MONASTERY. 


x 73 


The safety of the premises was ascertained by Halbert, 
who, instead of catching up a gun or cross-bow, and sally- 
ing out for the day, as had been his frequent custom, now, 
with a gravity beyond his years, took a survey of all around 
the tower, and then returned to the spence, or public apart- 
ment, in which, at the early hour of seven, the morning 
meal was prepared. 

There he found the Euphuist in the same elegant post- 
ure of abstruse calculation which he had -exhibited, on the 
preceding evening, his arms folded in the same angle, his 
eyes turned up to the same cobwebs, and his heels rest- 
ing on the ground as before. Tired of this affectation 
of indolent importance, and not much flattered with his 
guest’s persevering in it to the last, Halbert resolved at 
once to break the ice, being determined to know what cir- 
cumstance had brought to the tower of Glendinning a 
guest at once so supercilious and so silent. 

“ Sir Knight,” he said, with some firmness, “ I have twice 
given r you good morning, to which the absence of your 
mind hath, I presume, prevented you from yielding atten- 
tion, or from making return. This exchange of courtesy 
is at your pleasure to give or withhold — But, as what I 
have farther to say concerns your comfort and your mo- 
tions in an especial manner, I will entreat you to give me 
some signs of attention, that I may be sure I am not wast- 
ing my words on a monumental image.” 

At this unexpected address, Sir Piercie Shafton opened 
his eyes, and afforded the speaker a broad stare ; but as 
Halbert returned the glance without either confusion or 
dismay, the knight thought proper to change his posture, 
draw in his legs, raise his eyes, fix them on young Glen- 
dinning, and assume the appearance of one who listens to 
what is said to him. Nav, to make his purpose more evi- 
dent, he gave voice to his resolution in these words, “Speak ! 
we do hear.” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the youth, “ it is the custom of this 
Halidome, or patrimony of St. Mary’s, to trouble with in- 
quiries no guests who receive our hospitality, providing 
they tarry in our house only for a single revolution of the 
sun. We know that both criminals and debtors come 
hither for sanctuary, and we scorn to extort from the pil- 
grim, whom chance may make our guest, an avowal of 
the cause of his pilgrimage and penance. But when one 
so high above our rank as yourself, Sir Knight, and espe- 
cially one to whom the possession of such pre-eminence is 


174 


THE MONASTERY. 


not indifferent, shows his determination to be our guest 
for a longer time, it is our usage to inquire of him whence 
he comes, and what is the cause of his journey ?” 

The English knight gaped twice or thrice before he an- 
swered, and then replied in a bantering tone, “ Truly, 
good villagio, your question hath in it somewhat of em- 
barrassment, for you ask me of things concerning which I 
am not as yet altogether determined what answer I may 
find it convenient to make. Let it suffice thee, kind juve- 
nal, that thou hast the Lord Abbot’s authority for treating 
me to the best of that power of thine, which, indeed, may 
not always so well suffice for my accommodation as either 
of us would desire.” 

“ I must have a more precise answer than this, Sir 
Knight,” said the young Glendinning. 

“"Friend,” said the knight, “ be not outrageous. It may 
suit your northern manners thus to press harshly upon the 
secrets of thy betters ; but believe me, that even as the 
lute, struck by an unskilful hand, doth produce discords, 

so ” At this moment the door of the apartment 

opened, and Mary Avenel presented herself. “ But who 
can talk of discords,” said the knight, assuming his com- 
plimentary vein of humor, “ when the soul of harmony 
descends upon us in the presence of surpassing beauty ! 
For even as foxes, wolves, and other animals void of sense 
and reason, do fly from the presence of the resplendent 
sun of heaven, when he arises in his glory, so do strife, 
wrath, and all ireful passions retreat, and, as it were, scud 
away, from the face which now beams upon us, with 
power to compose our angry passions, illuminate our 
errors and difficulties, soothe our wounded minds, and lull 
to rest our disorderly apprehensions ; for as the heat and 
warmth of the eye of day is to the material and physical 
world, so is the eye which I now bow down before to that 
of the intellectual microcosm.” 

He concluded with a profound bow ; and Mary Avenel, 
gazing from one to the other, and plainly seeing that 
something was amiss, could only say, “ For heaven’s sake, 
what is the meaning of this ?” 

The newly-acquired tact and intelligence of her foster- 
brother was as yet insufficient to enable him to give an 
answer. He was quite uncertain how he ought to deal 
with a guest, who, preserving a singularly high tone of as- 
sumed superiority and importance, seemed nevertheless so 
little serious in what he said, that it was quite impossi- 


THE MONASTERY, 


*75 

ble to discern with accuracy whether he was in jest or 
earnest. 

Forming, however, the internal resolution to bring Sir 
Piercie Shafton to a reckoning at a more fit place and 
season, he resolved to prosecute the matter no farther at 
present ; and the entrance of his mother, with the damsel 
of the Mill, and the return of the honest Miller from the 
stack-yard, where he had been numbering and calculating 
the probable amount of the season’s grist, rendered farther 
discussion impossible for the moment. 

In the course of the calculation it could not but strike 
the man of meal and grindstones, that, after the church’s 
dues were paid, and after all which he himself could by 
any means deduct from the crop, still the residue which 
must revert to Dame Glendinning could not be less than 
considerable. * I wot not if this led the honest Miller to 
nourish any plans similar to those adopted by Elspeth ; but 
it is certain that he accepted with grateful alacrity an in- 
vitation which the dame gave to his daughter, to remain a 
week or two as her guest at Glendearg. 

The principal persons being thus in high good humor 
with each other, all business gave place to the hilarity of 
the morning repast ; and so much did Sir Piercie appear 
gratified by the attention which was paid to every word 
that he uttered by the nut-brown Mysie, that, notwithstand- 
ing his high birth and distinguished quality, he bestowed 
on her some of the more ordinary and second-rate tropes 
of his elocution. 

Marv Avenel, when relieved from the awkwardness of 
feeling the full weight of his conversation addressed to 
herself, enjoyed it much. more ; and the good knight, en- 
couraged by those conciliating marks of approbation from 
the sex, for whose sake he cultivated his oratorical talents, 
made speedy intimation of his purpose to be more com- 
municative than he had shown himself in his conversation 
with Halbert Glendinning, and gave them to understand, 
that it was in consequence of some pressing danger that 
he was at present their involuntary guest. 

The conclusion of the breakfast was a signal for the 
separation of the company. The Miller went to prepare 
for his departure ; his daughter to arrange matters for her 
unexpected stay ; Edward was summoned to a consulta- 
tion by Martin concerning some agricultural matter, in 
which Halbert could not be brought to interest himself; 
the dame left the room upon her household concerns, and 


176 


THE MONASTERY. 


Mary was in the act of following her, when she suddenly 
recollected, that if she did so the strange knight and Hal- 
bert must be left alone together, at the risk of another 
quarrel. 

The maiden no sooner observed this circumstance than 
she instantly returned from the door of the apartment, and, 
seating herself in a small stone window-seat, resolved to 
maintain that curb which she was sensible her presence 
imposed on Halbert Glendinning, of whose quick temper 
she had some apprehensions. 

The stranger marked her motions, and, either interpret- 
ing them as inviting his society, or obedient to those laws 
of gallantry which permitted him not to leave a lady in si- 
lence and solitude, lie instantly placed himself near to her 
side, and opened the conversation as follows : 

“ Credit me, fair lady,” he said, addressing -Mary Avenel ; 
“ it much rejoiceth me, being, as I am, a banished man 
from the delights of mine own country, that I shall find 
here, in this obscure and sylvan cottage of the north, a 
fair form and a candid soul, with whom I may explain my 
mutual sentiments. And let me pray you in particular, 
lovely lady, that, according to the universal custom now 
predominant in our court, the garden of superior wits, 
you will exchange with me some epithet whereby you may 
mark my devotion to your service. Be henceforward 
named, for example, my Protection, and let me be your 
Affability.” 

“Our northern and country manners, Sir Knight, do not 
permit us to exchange epithets with those to whom we are 
strangers,” replied Mary Avenel. 

“Nay, but see now,” said the knight, “ how jou are 
startled ! even as the unbroken steed, which swerves aside 
from the shaking of a handkerchief, though he must in 
time encounter the waving of a pennon. This courtly ex- 
change of epithets of honor is no more than the compli- 
ments which pass between valor and beauty, wherever 
they meet, and under whatever circumstances. Elizabeth 
of England herself calls Philip Sydney her Courage, and 
he in return calls that princess his Inspiration. Wherefore, 
my fair Protection, for by such epithet it shall be mine to 
denominate you ” 

“ Not without the young lady’s consent, sir ! ” inter- 
rupted Halbert ; “ most truly do I hope your courtly and 
quaint breeding will not so far prevail over the more ordi- 
nary rules of civil behavior.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


1 77 


“ Fair tenant of an indifferent copyhold,” replied the 
knight, with the same coolness and civility of mien, but in 
a tone somewhat more lofty than he used to the young 
lady, “we do not, in the southern parts, much intermingle 
discourse, save with those with whom we may stand on 
some footing of equality ; and I must in all discretion, re- 
mind you, that the necessity which makes us inhabitants 
of the same cabin, doth not place us otherwise on a level 
with each other.” 

“ By Saint Mary,” replied young Glendinning, “ it is my 
thought that it does ; for plain men hold, that he who 
asks the shelter is indebted to him who gives it ; and so 
far, therefore, is our rank equalized while this roof covers 
us both.” 

“ Thou art altogether deceived,” answered Sir Piercie ; 
“and that thou mayst fully adapt thyself to our relative 
condition, know that I account not myself thy guest, but 
that of thy master, the Lord Abbot of Saint Mary’s, who, 
for reasons best known to himself and me, chooseth to ad- 
minister his hospitality to me through the means of thee, 
his servant and vassal, who art, therefore, in good truth, 
as passive an instrument of my accommodation as this 
ill-made and rugged joint-stool on which I sit, or as the 
wooden trencher from which I eat my coarse commons. 
Wherefore,” he added, turning to Mary, “fairest mistress, 
or rather, as I said before, most lovely Protection ” * 

Mary Avenel was about to reply to him, when the stern, 
fierce, and resentful expression of voice and countenance 
with which Halbert exclaimed, “ Not from the King of 
Scotland, did he live, would I brook such terms ! ” induced 
h^r to throw herself between him and the stranger, ex- 
claiming, “For God’s sake, Halbert, beware what you do ! ” 

“ Fear not, fairest Protection,” replied Sir Piercie, with 
the utmost serenity, “ that I can be provoked by this rusti- 
cal and mistaught ju venal to do aught misbecoming your 
presence or mine own dignity ; for as soon shall the gun- 
ner’s linstock give fire unto the icicle, as the spark of pas- 
sion inflame my blood, tempered as it is to serenity by the 
respect due to the presence of my gracious Protection.” 

“You may well call her your Protection, Sir Knight,” 
said Halbert; “by Saint Andrew, it is the only sensible 
word I have heard you speak ! But we may meet where 
her protection shall no longer afford you shelter.” 

* Note F. Quaint Epithets. 

P2 


i 7 8 


T HE MONASTERY. 


“ Fairest Protection,” continued the courtier, not even 
honoring with a look, far less with a direct reply, the 
threat of the incensed Halbert, “doubt not that thy faith- 
ful Affability will be more commoved by the speech of this 
rudesby, than the bright and serene moon is perturbed by 
the baying of the cottage-cur, proud of the height of his 
own dunghill, which, in his conceit, lifteth him nearer 
unto the majestic luminary.” 

To what lengths so unsavory a simile might have driven 
Halbert’s indignation is left uncertain ; for at that moment 
Edward rushed into the apartment with the intelligence 
that two most important officers of the Convent, the Kitch- 
ener and Refectioner, were just arrived with a sumpter- 
mule, loaded with provisions, announcing that the Lord 
Abbot, the Sub-Prior, and the Sacristan, were on their way 
thither. A circumstance so very extraordinary had never 
been recorded in the annals of Saint Mary’s, or in the tra- 
ditions of Glendearg, though there was a faint legendary 
report that a certain Abbot had dined there in old days, 
after having been bewildered in a hunting expedition 
among the wilds which lie to the northward. But that 
the present Lord Abbot should have taken a voluntary 
journey to so wild and dreary a spot, the very Kamtschatka 
of the Halidome, was a thing never dreamt of ; and the 
news excited the greatest surprise in all the members of 
the family saving Halbert alone. 

This fiery youtli was too full of the insult he had re- 
ceived to think of anything as unconnected with it. “ I 
am glad of it,” he exclaimed ; “ I am glad the Abbot comes 
hither. 1 will know of him by what right this stranger is 
sent hither to domineer over us under our father’s roof, as 
if we were slaves, and not freemen. 1 will tell the proud 
priest to his beard ” 

“Alas! alas! my brother,” said Edward, “think what 
these words may cost thee ! ” 

“ And what will, or what can they cost me,” said Halbert, 
“that I should sacrifice my human feelings and my justi- 
fiable resentment to the fear of what the Abbot can do ?” 

“Our mother — our mother!” exclaimed Edward ; “think, 
if she is deprived of her home, expelled from her property, 
how can you amend what your rashness may ruin ?•” 

“ It is too true, by Heaven !” said Halbert, striking his 
forehead. Then, stamping his foot against the floor, to ex- 
press the full energy of the passion to which he dared no 
longer give vent, he turned round and left the apartment. 


THE MONASTERY. 


179 


Mary Avenel looked at the stranger knight, while she 
was endeavoring to frame a request that he would not re- 
port the intemperate violence of her foster-brother, to the 
prejudice of his family in the mind of the Abbot. But Sir 
Piercie, the very pink of courtesy, conjectured her mean- 
ing from her embarrassment, and waited not to be entreated. 

“ Credit me, fairest Protection,” said he, “your Affability 
is less than capable of seeing or hearing, far less of reciting 
or reiterating, aught of an unseemly nature which may have 
chanced while I enjoyed the Elysium of your presence. 
The winds of idle passion may indeed rudely agitate the 
bosom of the rude ; but the heart of the courtier is polished 
to resist them. As the frozen lake receives not the influ- 
ence of the breeze, even so ” 

The voice of Dame Glendinning, in shrill summons, 
here demanded Mary Avenel’s attendance, who instantly 
obeyed, not a little glad to escape from the compliments 
and similes of this court-like gallant. Nor was it appar- 
ently less a relief on his part ; for no sooner was she past 
the threshold of the room, than he exchanged the look of 
formal and elaborate politeness which had accompanied 
each word he had uttered hitherto, for an expression of 
the utmost lassitude and ennui ; and, after indulging in one 
or two portentous yawns, broke forth into a soliloquy. 

“What the foul fiend sent this wench hither? As if it 
were not sufficient plague to be harbored in a hovel that 
would hardly serve for a dog’s kennel in England, baited 
by a rude peasant boy, and dependent on the faith of a 
mercenary ruffian, but I cannot even have time to muse 
over my own mishap, but must come aloft, frisk, fidget, 
and make speeches, to please this pale hectic phantom, be- 
cause she has gentle blood in her veins ! By mine honor, 
setting prejudice aside, the mill-wench is the more attrac- 
tive of the two — But patienza, Piercie Shafton ; thou must 
not lose thy well-earned claim to be accounted a devout 
servant of the fair sex, a witty-brained, prompt, and accom- 
plished courtier. Rather thank heaven, Piercie Shafton, 
which hath sent thee a subject, wherein, without derogat- 
ing from thy rank (since the honors of the Avenel family 
are beyond dispute), thou mayest find a whetstone for thy 
witty compliments, a strop whereon to sharpen thine acute 
ingine, a butt whereat to shoot the arrows of thy gallantry. 
For even as a Bilboa blade, the more it is rubbed the 
brighter and the sharper will it prove, so — But what 
need I waste my stock of similitudes in holding converse 


i8o 


THE MONASTERY. 


with myself? — Yonder comes the monkish retinue, like 
some half-score of crows winging their way slowly up the 
valley — I hope, a’gad, they have not forgotten my trunk- 
mails of apparel amid the ample provision they have made 
for their own belly-timber — Mercy a’gad, I were finely 
holped up if the vesture has miscarried among the thievish 
Borderers ! ” 

Stung by this reflection, he ran hastily down stairs, and 
caused his horse to be^saddled, that he might, as soon as 
possible, ascertain this important point, by meeting the 
Lord Abbot and his retinue as they came up the glen. He 
had not ridden a mile before he met them.advancing with 
the slowness and decorum which became persons of their 
dignity and profession. The knight failed not to greet the 
Lord Abbot with all the formal compliments with which 
men of rank at that period exchanged courtesies. He had 
the good fortune to find that his mails were numbered 
among the train of baggage which attended upon the 
party ; and, satisfied in that particular, he turned his 
horse’s head, and accompanied the Abbot to the Tower of 
Glendearg. 

Great, in the meanwhile, had been the turmoil of the 
good Dame Elspeth and her coadjutors, to prepare for the 
fitting reception of the Father Lord Abbot and his retinue. 
The monks had indeed taken care not to trust too much to 
the state of her pantry ; but she was not the less anxious 
to make such additions as might enable her to claim the 
thanks of her feudal lord and spiritual father. Meeting 
Halbert, as, with his blood on fire, he returned from his 
altercation with her guest, she commanded him instantly 
to go forth to the hill, and not to return without venison ; 
reminding him that he was apt enough to go thither for his 
own pleasure, and must now do so for the credit of the house. 

The Miller, who was now hastening his journey home- 
ward, promised to send up some salmon by his own ser- 
vant. Dame Elspeth, who by this time thought she had 
guests enough, had begun to repent of her invitation to 
poor Mysie, and was just considering by what means, 
short of giving offence, she could send off the Maid of the 
Mill behind her father, and adjourn all her own aerial 
architecture till some future opportunity, when this unex- 
pected generosity on the part of the' sire rendered any 
present attempt to return his daughter on his hands too 
highly ungracious to be farther thought on. So the Miller 
departed alone on his homeward journey. 


THE MONASTERY. 


iS\ 

Dame Elspeth’s sense of hospitality proved in this in- 
stance its own reward ; for Mysie had dwelt too near the 
Convent to be altogether ignorant of the noble art of 
cookery, which her father patronized to the extent of con- 
suming on festival days such dainties as his daughter could 
prepare in emulation of the luxuries of the Abbot's kitchen. 
Laying aside, therefore, her holiday kirtle, and adopting a 
dress more suitable to the occasion, the good-humored 
maiden bared her snowy arms above the elbows ; and, as 
Elspeth acknowledged, in the language of the time and 
country, took “entire and aefauld part with her” in the 
labors of the day ; showing unparalleled talent, and inde- 
fatigable industry, in the preparation of mortreux , blaric- 
manger , and heaven knows what delicacies besides, which 
Dame Glendinning, unassisted by her skill, dared not even 
have dreamt of presenting. 

Leaving this able substitute in the kitchen, and regret- 
ting that Mary Avenel was so brought up, that she could 
entrust nothing to her care, unless it might be seeing the 
great chamber strewed with rushes, and ornamented with 
such flowers and branches as the season afforded, Dame 
Elspeth hastily donned her best attire, and with a beating 
heart presented herself at the door of her little tower, to 
make her obeisance to the Lord Abbot as he ‘crossed her 
humble threshold. Edward stood by his mother, and felt 
the same palpitation, which his philosophy was at a loss to 
account for. He was yet to learn how long it is ere our 
reason is enabled to triumph over the force of external 
circumstances, and how much our feelings are affected by 
novelty, and blunted by use and habit. 

On the present occasion he witnessed with wonder and 
awe the approach of some half-score of riders, sober men 
upon sober palfreys, muffled in their long black garments, 
and only relieved by their white scapularies, showing more 
like a funeral procession than aught else, and not quick- 
ening their pace beyond that which permitted easy conver- 
sation and easy digestion. The sobriety of the scene was 
indeed somewhat enlivened by the presence of Sir Piercie 
Shafton, who, to show that his skill in the manege was not 
inferior to his other accomplishments, kept alternately 
pressing and checking his gay courser, forcing him to 
piaffe, to caracole, to passage, and to do all the other feats 
of the school, to the great annoyance of the Lord Abbot, 
the wonted sobriety of whose palfrey became at length 
discomposed by the" vivacity of its companion, while the 


1 82 


THE MONASTERY. 


dignitary kept crying out in bodily alarm, “ I do pray you, 
sir — Sir Knight — good now, Sir Piercie — Be quiet, Bene- 
dict, there is a good steed — soh, poor fellow ! ” and utter- 
ing all the other precatory and soothing exclamations by 
which a timid horseman usually bespeaks the favor of a 
frisky companion, or of his own unquiet nag, and conclud- 
ing the bead-roll with a sincere Deo gratias so soon as he 
alighted in the courtyard of the Tower of Glendearg. 

The inhabitants unanimously knelt down to kiss the hand 
of the Lord Abbot, a ceremony which even the monks were 
often condemned to. Good Abbot Boniface was too much 
fluttered by the incidents of the latter part of his journey, 
to go through this ceremony with much solemnity, or in- 
deed with much patience. He kept wiping his brow with 
a snow-white handkerchief with one hand, while the other 
was abandoned to the homage of his vassals ; and then 
signing the cross with his outstretched arm, and exclaim- 
ing, “ Bless ye — bless ye, my children ! ” he hastened into 
the house, and murmured not a little at the darkness and 
steepness of the rugged winding stair, whereby he at 
length scaled the spence destined for his entertainment, 
and, overcome with fatigue, threw himself, I do not say 
into an easy chair, but into the easiest the apartment 
afforded. 


CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 

A courtier extraordinary, who by diet 
Of meats and drinks, his temperate exercise, 

Choice music, frequent baths, his horary shifts 
Of shirts and waistcoats, means to immortalize 
Mortality itself, and makes the essence 
Of his whole happiness the trim of court. 

Magnetic Lady. 

When the Lord Abbot had suddenly and superciliously 
vanished from the eyes of his expectant vassals, the Sub- 
Prior made amends for the negligence of his principal, 
by the kind and affectionate greeting which he gave to 
all the members of the family, but especially to Dame Els- 
peth, her foster-daughter, and her son Edward. “Where,” 
he even condescended to inquire, “ is that naughty Nimrod, 
Halbert ? He hath not yet, I trust, turned, like his great 
prototype, his hunting-spear against man! ” 

“ O no, an it please your reverence,” said Dame Glen- 


THE MONASTERY. 


r ^3 

dinning. “ Halbert is up at the glen to get some venison, 
or surely he would not have been absent when such a day 
of honor dawned upon me and mine.” 

“ Oh, to get savory meat, such as our soul loveth,” mut- 
tered the Sub-Prior ; “it has been at times an acceptable 
gift. I bid you good morrow, my good dame, as I must 
attend upon his lordship the Father Abbot.” 

“And oh, reverend sir,” said the good widow, detaining 
him, “if it might be your pleasure to take part with us if 
there is anything wrong ; and if there is anything wanted, 
to say that it is just coming, or to make some excuses your 
learning best knows how. Every bit of vassail and silver 
work have we been spoiled of since Pinkiecleugh, when I 
lost poor Simon Glendinning, that was the warst of a’.” 

“ Never mind — never fear,” said the Sub-Prior, gently 
extricating his garment from the anxious grasp of Dame 
Elspeth ; “ the Refectioner has with him the Abbot’s plate 
and drinking-cups; and I pray you to believe that what- 
ever is short in your entertainment will be deemed amply 
made up in your good will.” 

So saying, he escaped from her and went into the spence, 
where such preparations as haste permitted were making 
for the noon collation of the Abbot and the English knight. 
Here he found the Lord Abbot, for whom a cushion com- 
posed of all the plaids in the house had been unable to 
render Simon’s huge elbow-chair a soft or comfortable 
place of rest. 

“ Benedicite!” said Abbot Boniface, “ now marry fie upon 
these hard benches with all my heart — they are as uneasy 
as the scabella of our novices. Saint Jude be with us, Sir 
Knight, how have you contrived to pass over the night in 
this dungeon ? An your bed was no softer than your seat, 
you might as well have slept on the stone couch of Saint 
Pacomius. After trotting a full ten miles, a man needs a 
softer seat than has fallen to my hard lot.” 

With sympathizing faces, the Sacristan and the Refec- 
tioner ran to raise the Lord Abbot, and to adjust his seat 
to his mind, which was at length accomplished in some 
sort, although he continued alternately to bewaii his fa- 
tigue, and to exult in the conscious sense of having dis- 
charged an arduous duty. “ You errant cavaliers,” said he, 
addressing the knight, “may now perceive that others 
have their travail and their toils to undergo as well as 
your honored faculty. And this I will say for myself and 
the soldiers of Saint Mary, among whom I may be termed 


THE MONASTERY. 


184 

captain, that it is not our wont to flinch from the heat of 
the service, or to withdraw from the good fight. No, by 
Saint Mary !— no sooner did I learn that you were here, 
and dared not for certain reasons come to the Monastery, 
where, with as good will, and with more convenience, we 
might have given you a better reception, than, striking 
the table with my hammer, I called a brother — Timothy, 
said I, let them saddle Benedict — let them saddle my black 
palfrey, and bid the Sub-Prior and some half-score of 
attendants be in readiness to-morrow after matins — we 
would ride to Glendearg — Brother Timothy stared, think- 
ing, I imagine, that his ears had scarce done him justice — 
but I repeated my commands, and said, Let the Kitchener 
and Refectioner go before to aid the poor vassals to whom 
the place belongs in making a suitable collation. So that 
you will consider, good Sir Piercie, our mutual incommod- 
ities, and forgive whatever you may find amiss.” 

“ By my faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “there is noth- 
ing to forgive — If you spiritual warriors have to submit to 
the grievous incommodities which your lordship narrates, 
it would ill become me, a" sinful and secular man, to com- 
plain of a bed as hard as a board, of broth which relished 
as if made of burnt wool, of flesh, which, in its sable and 
singed shape, seemed to put me on a level with Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion, when he ate up the head of a Moor car- 
bonadoed, and of other viands savoring rather of the rus- 
ticity of this northern region.” 

“ By the good Saints, sir,” said the Abbot, somewhat 
touched in point of his character for hospitality, of which 
he was in truth a most faithful and zealous professor, “it 
grieves me to the heart that you have found our vassals 
no better provided for your reception — Yet I crave leave 
to observe, that if Sir Piercie Shafton’s affairs had per- 
mitted him to honor with his company our poor house of 
Saint Mary’s, he might have had less to complain of in 
respect of easements ” 

“To give your lordship the reasons,” said Sir Piercie 
Shafton, “ why I could not at this present time approach 
your dwelling, or avail myself of its well-known and un- 
doubted hospitality, craves either some delay, or,” looking 
around him, “a limited audience.” 

The Lord Abbot immediately issued his mandate to the 
Refectioner : “ Hie thee to the kitchen, Brother Hiiarius, 
and there make inquiry of our brother the Kitchener, 
within what time he opines that our collation may be 


THE MONASTERY. 


i8 5 


prepared, since sin and sorrow it were, considering the 
hardships of this noble and gallant knight, no whit men- 
tioning or weighing those we ourselves have endured, if 
we were now either to advance or retard the hour of re- 
fection beyond the time when the viands are fit to be set 
before us.” 

Brother Hilarius parted with an eager alertness to exe- 
cute the will of his Superior, and returned with the assur- 
ance, that punctually at one afternoon would the collation 
be ready. 

“ Before that time,” said the accurate Refectioner, “the 
wafers, flamms, and pastry-meat, will scarce have had the 
just degree of fire which learned pottingers prescribe as 
fittest for the body ; and if it should be past one o’clock, 
were it but ten minutes, our brother the Kitchener opines, 
that the haunch of venison would suffer in spite of the 
skill of the little turn-broclie whom he has recommended 
to your holiness by his praises.” 

“How!” said the Abbot, “a haunch of venison! — from 
whence comes that dainty ? I remember not thou didst 
intimate its presence in thy hamper of vivers.” 

“ So please your holiness and lordship,” said the Refec- 
tioner, “ he is a son of the woman of the house who hath 
shot it and sent it in — killed it but now ; yet, as the animal 
heat hath not left the body, the Kitchener undertakes it 
shall eat as tender as a young chicken — and this youth 
hath a special gift in shooting deer, and never misses the 
heart or the brain ; so that the blood is not driven through 
the flesh, as happens too often with us. It is a hart of 
grease — your holiness has seldom seen such a haunch.” 

“ Silence, Brother Hilarius,” said the Abbot, wiping 
his mouth ; “ it is not beseeming our order to talk of food 
so earnestly, especially as we must oft have our animal 
powers exhausted by fasting, and be accessible (as being 
ever mere mortals) to those signs of longing” (he again 
wiped his mouth) “ which arise on the mention of victuals 
to an hungry man. — Minute down; however, the name of 
that youth — it is fitting merit should be rewarded, and he 
shall hereafter be a frater ad succurrendum in the kitchen 
and buttery.” 

“Alas! reverend Father, and my goocblord,” replied 
the Refectioner, “ I did inquire after the youth, and J learn 
he is one who prefers the cask to the cowl, and the 
sword of the flesh to the weapons of the spirit.” 

“And if it be so,” said the Abbot, “see that thou retain 


i86 


THE MONASTERY. 


him as a deputy-keeper and man-at-arms, and not as a lay 
brother of the Monastery — for old Tallboy, our forester, 
waxes dim-eyed, and hath twice 'spoiled a noble buck, by 
hitting him unwarily on the haunch. Ah 1 ’tis a foul fault, 
the abusing by evil-killing, evil-dressing, evil-appetite, or 
otherwise, the good creatures indulged to us for our use. 
Wherefore, secure us the service of this youth, Brother 
Hilarius, in the way that may best suit him. — And now, 
Sir Piercie Shafton, since the fates have assigned us 
a space of well-nigh an hour, ere we dare hope to enjoy 
more than the vapor or savor of our repast, may I pray 
you, of your courtesy, to tell me the cause of this visit ; 
and, above all, to inform us, why you will not approach 
our more pleasant and better furnished hospitium 

“ Reverend Father, and my very good lord,” said Sir 
Piercie Shafton, “it is well known to your wisdom, that 
there are stone walls which have ears, and that secrecy is 
to be looked to in matters which concern a man’s head.” 

The Abbot signed to his attendants, excepting the Sub- 
Prior, to leave the room, and then said, “Your valor, Sir 
Piercie, may freely unburden yourself before our faithful 
friend and counsellor Father Eustace, the benefits of whose 
advice we may too soon lose, inasmuch as his merits will 
speedily recommend him to a higher station, in which, we 
trust, he may find the blessing of a friend and adviser as 
valuable as himself, since I may say of him, as our claustral 
rhyme goeth,* 

‘ Dixit Abbas ad prioris, 

Tu es homo boni moris, 

Quia semper sanioris, 

Mihi das concilia.’ 


Indeed,” he added, “the office of Sub-Prior is altogether 
beneath our dear brother ; nor can we elevate him unto 
that of Prior, which, for certain reasons, is at present kept 
vacant amongst us. Howbeit, Father Eustace is fully pos- 
sessed of my confidence, and worthy of yours, and well 
may it be said of him, Intravit in secretis nostris .” 

Sir Piercie Shafton bowed to the reverend brethren, and, 
heaving a sigh, as if he would have burst his steel cuirass, 
he thus commenced his speech : — 

“ Certes, reverend sirs, I may well heave such a suspira- 
tion, who have, as it were, exchanged heaven for purga- 

* The rest of this doggerel rhyme may be found in Fosbrooke’s learned 
work on British Monachism. 


THE MONA S7 ER Y. 


187 


tory, leaving the lightsome sphere of the royal court of 
England, for a remote nook in this inaccessible desert — 
quitting the tilt-yard, where I was ever ready among my 
compeers to splinter a lance, either for the love of honor, 
or for the honor of love, in. order to couch my knightly 
spear against base and pilfering besognios and marauders 
— exchanging the lighted halls, wherein I used nimbly to 
pace the swift coranto, or to move with a loftier grace in 
the stately galliard, for this rugged and decayed dungeon 
of rusty-colored stone — quitting the gay theatre, for the 
solitary chimney-nook of a Scottish dog-house — bartering 
the sounds of the soul-ravishing lute, and the love-awaken- 
ing viol-de-gamba, for the discordant squeak of a northern 
bagpipe — above all, exchanging the smiles of those beau- 
ties, who form a galaxy around the throne of England, for 
the cold courtesy of an untaught damsel, and the bewil- 
dered stare of a miller’s maiden. More might I say, of the 
exchange of the conversation of gallant knights arfd gay 
courtiers of mine own order and capacity, whose conceits 
are bright and vivid as the lightning, for that of monks and 
churchmen — but it were discourteous to urge that topic.” 

The Abbot listened to this list of complaints with great 
round eyes, which evinced no exact intelligence of the 
orator’s meaning ; and when the knight paused to take 
breath, he looked with a doubtful and inquiring eye at the 
Sub-Prior, not well knowing in what tone he should reply 
to an exordium so extraordinary. The Sub-Prior accord- 
ingly stepped in to the relief of his principal. 

“ We deeply sympathize with you, Sir Knight, in the 
several mortifications and hardships to which fate has sub- 
jected you, particularly in that which has thrown you into 
the society of those, who, as they were conscious they de- 
served not such an honor, so neither did they at all desire 
it. But all this goes little way to expound the cause of 
this train of disasters, or, in plainer words, the reason 
which has compelled you into a situation having so few 
charms for you.” 

“ Gentle and reverend sir,” replied the knight, “forgive 
an unhappy person, who, in giving a history of his miser- 
ies, dilateth upon them extremely, even as lie who, having 
fallen from a precipice, looketh upward to measure the 
height from which lie hath been precipitated.” 

“ Yea, but,” said Father Eustace, “ methinks it were 
wiser in him to tell those who come to lift him up, which 
of his bones have been broken.” 


i88 


THE MONASTERY. 


‘‘You, reverend sir," said the knight, “have, in the en« 
counter of our wits, made a fair attaint ; whereas I may be 
in some sort said to have broken my staff across.* Pafdon 
me, grave sir, that I speak the language of the tilt-yard, 
which is ’doubtless strange to your reverend ears. Ah ! 
brave resort of the noble, the fair, and the gay ! — Ah ! 
throne of love, and citadel of honor ! — Ah ! celestial beau- 
ties by whose bright eyes it is graced ! Never more 
shall Piercie Shafton advance, as the centre of your radi- 
ant glances, couch his lance, and spur his horse at the 
sound of the spirit-stirring trumpets, nobly called the 
voice of war — never more shall he baffle his adversary’s 
encounter boldly, break his spear dexterously, and ambling 
around the lovely circle, receive the rewards with which 
beauty honors chivalry ! ” 

Here he paused,, wrung his hands, looked upward, and 
seemed lost in contemplation of his own fallen fortunes. 

“ Mad, very mad," whispered the Abbot to the Sub-Prior; 
“I would we were fairly rid of him; for, of a truth, I ex- 
pect he will proceed from raving to mischief — Were it not 
better to call up the rest of the brethren ?’’ 

But the Sub-Prior knew better than his superior how to 
distinguish the jargon of affectation from the ravings of 
insanity, and although the extremity of the knight’s pas- 
sion seemed altogether fantastic, yet he was not ignorant 
to what extravagances the fashion of the day can conduct 
its votaries. 

Allowing, therefore, two minutes’ space to permit the 
knight’s enthusiastic feelings to exhaust themselves, he 
again gravely reminded him that the Lord Abbot had taken 
a journey, unwonted to his age and habits, solely to learn 
in what he could serve Sir Piercie Shafton — that it was 
altogether impossible he could do so without his receiving 
distinct information of the situation in which he had now 
sought refuge in Scotland. — “The day wore on," he ob- 
served, looking at the window ; “and if the Abbot should 
be obliged to return to the Monastery without obtaining 
the necessary intelligence, the regret might be mutual, but 
the inconvenience was like to be all on Sir Piercie’s own 
side." 

* Attaint was a term of tilting used to express the champion’s having 
attained his mark, or in other words, struck his lance straight and fair 
against the helmet or breast of his adversary. Whereas to break the lance 
across, intimated a total failure in directing the point of the weapon on the 
object of his aim. 


THE MONASTERY. 


189 


The hint was not thrown away. 

“ O goddess of courtesy !” said the knight, ‘ C can I have 
so far forgotten thy behests as to make this good prelate’s 
ease and time a sacrifice to my vain complaints! Know, 
then, most worthy, and not less worshipful, that I, your 
poor visitor and guest, am by birth nearly bound to the 
Piercie of Northumberland, whose fame is so widely blown 
through all parts of the world, where English worth hath 
been known. Now, this present Earl of Northumberland, 
of whom I propose to give you the brief history ” 

‘‘It is altogether unnecessary,” said the Abbot; “we 
know him to be a good and true nobleman, and a sworn 
upholder of our Catholic faith, in the spite of the heretical 
woman who now sits upon the throne of England. And it 
Is specially as his kinsman, and as knowing that ye partake 
with him in such devout and faithful belief and adherence 
to our holy Mother Church, that we say to you, Sir Piercie 
Shafton, that ye be heartily welcome to us, and that, an we 
wist how, we would labor to do you good service in your 
extremity.” , > 

“ For such kind offer I rest your most humble debtor,” 
said Sir Piercie; “nor need I at this moment say more 
than that my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumber- 
land, having devised with me and some others, the choice 
and picked spirits of the age, how and by what means the 
worship of God, according to the Catholic Church, might 
be again introduced into this distracted kingdom of Eng- 
land (even as one deviseth, by the assistance of his friend, 
to catch and bridle a runaway steed), it pleased him so 
deeply to intrust me .in those communications, that my 
personal safety becomes, as it were, entwined or compli- 
cated therewith. Natheless, as we have had sudden rea- 
son to believe, this Princess Elizabeth, who maintained: 
around her a sort of counsellors skilful in tracking what- 
ever schemes may be pursued for bringing her title into 
challenge, or for erecting again the discipline of the Cath- 
olic Church, has obtained certain knowledge of the trains 
which we had laid before we could give fire unto them. 
Wherefore, my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumber- 
land, thinking it best belike that one man should take 
both blame and shame for the whole, did lay the burden 
of all this trafficking upon my back ; which load I am the 
rather content to bear, in that he hath always shown him- 
self my kind and honorable kinsman, as well as that my 
estate, I wot not how, hath of late been somewhat insuffr 


190 


THE MONASTERY. 


cient to maintain the expense of those braveries, where- 
with it is incumbent on us, who are chosen and selected 
spirits, to distinguish ourselves from the vulgar.” 

- “So that possibly,” said the Sub-Prior, “your private 
affairs rendered a foreign journey less incommodious to 
you than it might have been to the noble earl, your right 
worthy cousin?” 

“ You are right, reverend sir,” answered the courtier ; 
“ rem acu — you have touched the point with a needle — 
My cost and expenses had been indeed somewhat lavish at 
the late triumphs and tourneys, and the flat-capp’d citi- 
zens had shown themselves unwilling to furnish my pock- 
ets for new gallantries for the honor of the nation, as well 
as for mine own peculiar glory — and, to speak truth, it was 
in some part the hope of seeing these matters amended 
that led me to desire a new world in England.” 

“ So that the miscarriage of your public enterprise, with 
the derangement of your own private affairs,” said the Sub- 
Prior, “ have induced you to seek Scotland as a place of 
refr je ? ” 

“ Rem acu , once again,” said Sir Piercie ; “ and not with- 
out good cause, since my neck, if I remained, might have 
been brought within the circumstances of a halter — and so 
speedy was my journey northward, that I had but time to 
exchange my peach-colored doublet of Genoa velvet, 
thickly laid over with goldsmith’s work, for this cuirass, 
which was made by Bonamico of Milan, and travelled 
northward with all speed, judging that I might do well to 
visit my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumberland, at 
one of his numerous castles. But as I posted toward Aln- 
wick, even with the speed of a star, which, darting from 
its native sphere, shoots wildly downward, I was. met at 
Northallerton by one Heny Vaughan, a servant of my 
right honorable kinsman, who showed me, that as then I 
might not with safety come to his presence, seeing that, 
in obedience to orders from his court, he was obliged to 
issue out letters for my incarceration.” 

“This,” said the Abbot, “seems but hard measure on 
the part of your honorable kinsman.” 

“ It might be so judged my lord,” replied Sir Piercie ; 
“ nevertheless, I will stand to the de^th for the honor of 
my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumberland. Also 
Henry Vaughan gave me, from my said cousin, a good 
horse, and a purse of gold, with two Border-prickers, as 
they are called, for my guides, who conducted me, by such 


THE MONASTERY. 


igi 

roads and by-paths as have never been seen since the days 
of Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristrem, into this kingdom of 
Scotland, and to the house of a certain baron, or one who 
holds the style of such, called Julian Avenel, with whom I 
found such reception as the place and party could afford.” 

“ And that,” said the Abbot, “ must have been right 
wretched ; for, to judge from the appetite which Julian 
showeth when abroad, he hath not, I judge, over-abundant 
provision at home.” 

“You are right, sir — your reverence is in the right,” 
continued Sir Piercie ; “ we had but lenten fare, and, what 
was worse, a score to clear at the departure ; for though 
this Julian Avenel called us to no reckoning, yet he did so 
extravagantly admire the fashion of my poniard — the poig- 
net being of silver exquisitely hatched, and indeed the 
weapon being altogether a piece of exceeding rare device 
and beauty — that in faith I could not for very shame’s sake 
but pray his acceptance of it ; words which he gave me 
not the trouble of repeating twice, before he had stuck it 
into his greasy buff-belt, where, credit me, reverend sir, it 
showed more like a butcher’s knife than a gentleman’s 
dagger.” 

“ So goodly a gift might at least have purchased you a 
few days’ hospitality,” said Father Eustace. 

“ Reverend sir,” said Sir Piercie, “ had I abidden with 
him, I should have been complimented out of every rem- 
nant of my wardrobe — actually flayed, by the hospitable 
gods I swear it ! Sir, he secured my spare doublet, and 
had a pluck at my galligaskins — I was enforced to beat a 
retreat before I was altogether unrigged. That Border 
knave, his serving-man, had a pluck at me too, and usurped 
a scarlet cassock and steel cuirass belonging to the page 
of my body, whom I was fain to leave behind me. In good 
time I received a letter from my Right Honorable Cousin, 
showing me that he had written to you in my behalf, and 
sent to your charge-.fwo mails filled with wearing apparel 
— namely, my rich crimson silk doublet, slashed out and 
lined with cloth of gold, which I wore at the last revels, 
with baldric and trimmings to correspond — also two pair 
black silk slops, with hanging garters of carnation silk — 
also the flesh-colored silken doublet, with the trimmings 
of fur, in which I danced the salvage man at the Gray’s 
Inn mummery — also ” 

“Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “I pray you to spare 
the farther inventory of your wardrobe. The monks of 


192 


THE MONASTERY. 


Saint Mary’s are no freebooting barons, and whatever part 
of your vestments arrived at our house, have been this day 
faithfully brought hither, with the mails which contained 
them. I may presume from what has been said, as we 
have indeed been given to understand by the Earl of North- 
umberland, that your desire is to remain for the present as 
unknown and as unnoticed, as may be consistent with your 
high worth and distinction.” 

“ Alas, reverend father \ ” replied the courtier, “ a blade 
when it is in the scabbard cannot give lustre, a diamond 
when it is in the casket cannot give light, and worth, when 
it is compelled by circumstances to obscure itself, cannot 
draw observation — my retreat can only attract the admira- 
tion of those few to whom circumstances permit its dis- 
playing itself.” 

“ I conceive now, my venerable father and lord,” said 
the Sub-Prior, “ that your wisdom will assign such a course 
of conduct to this noble knight, as may be alike consistent 
with his safety, and with the weal of the community. For 
you wot well, that perilous strides have been made in these 
audacious days, to the destruction of all ecclesiastical 
foundations, and that our holy community has been repeat- 
edly menaced. Hitherto they have found no flaw in our 
raiment ; but a party, friendly as well to the Queen of Eng- 
land, as to the heretical doctrines of the schismatical church, 
or even to worse and wilder forms of heresy, prevails now at 
the court of our sovereign, who dare not yield to her suffer- 
ing clergy the protection she would gladly extend to them.” 

“My lord, and reverend sir,” said the knight, “ I will 
gladly relieve you of my presence, while ye canvass this 
matter at your freedom ; and to speak truly, I am desirous 
to see in what case the chamberlain of my noble kinsman 
hath found my wardrobe, and how he hath packed the 
same, and whether it has suffered from the journey — there 
are four suits of as pure and elegant device as ever the 
fancy of a fair lady doted upon, every one having a treble, 
and appropriate change of ribbons, trimmings, and fringes, 
which, in case of need, may as it were renew each of them, 
and multiply the four into twelve. — There is also my sad- 
colored riding-suit, and three cut- work shirts with falling 
bands — I pray you, pardon me — I must needs see how 
matters stand with them without farther dallying.” 

Thus speaking, he left the room ; and the Sub-Prior, 
looking after him significantly, added, “Where the treasure 
is will the heart be also.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


193 


“ Saint Mary preserve our wits ! ” said the Abb6t, stunned 
with the knight’s abundance of words ; “were man’s brains 
ever so stuffed with silk and broadcloth, cut-work, and I 
wot not what besides ? And what could move the Earl of 
Northumberland to assume for his bosom counsellor, in 
matters of death and danger, such a feather-brained' cox- 
comb as this ?” 

“ Had he been other than what he is, venerable father,” 
said the Sub-Prior, “he had been less fitted for the part of 
scapegoat to which his Right Honorable Cousin had prob- 
ably destined him from the commencement, in case of their 
plot failing. I know something of this Piercie Shafton. 
The legitimacy of his mother’s descent from the Piercie 
family, the point on which he is most jealous, hath been 
called in question. If harebrained courage, and an out- 
rageous spirit of gallantry, can make good his pretensions 
to the high lineage he claims, these qualities have never 
been denied him. For the rest, he is one of the ruffling 
gallants of the time, like Rowland Yorke, Stukely,* and 
others, who wear out their fortunes, and endanger their 
lives, in idle braveries, in order that they may be esteemed 
the only choice gallants of the time ; and afterwards en- 
deavor to repair their estate, by engaging in the desperate 
plots and conspiracies which wiser heads have devised. To 
use one of his own conceited similitudes, such courageous 
fools resemble hawks, which the wiser conspirator keeps 
hooded and blinded on his wrist until the quarry is on 
the wing, and who are then flown at them.” 

“Saint Mary,” said the Abbot, “he were an evil guest 
to introduce into our quiet household. Our young monks 
make bustle enough, and more fehan is beseeming God’s 
servants, about their outward attire already — this knight 
were enough to turn their brains* from the Vestiarius down 
to the very scullion boy.” 

“A worse evil might follow,” said the Sub-Prior; “in 
these bad days, the patrimony of the church is bought 
and*sold, forfeited and distrained, as if it were the unhal- 
lowed soil appertaining to a secular baron. Think what 
penalty awaits us, were we convicted of harboring a rebel 
to her whom they call the Queen of England ! There 
would neither be wanting Scottish parasites to beg the 
lands of the foundation, nor an army from England to 
burn and harry the Halidome. The men of Scotland 

* Note G. Rowland Yorke and Stukely. 

*3 


194 


THE MONASTERY. 


were once Scotsmen, firm and united in their love of theii 
country, and throwing every other consideration aside 
when the frontier was menaced — now they are — what shall 
I call them — the one part French, the other part English, 
considering their dear native country merely as a prize- 
fighting stage, upon which foreigners are welcome to de- 
cide their quarrels.” 

“ Benedicite ! ” replied the Abbot, “they are indeed 
slippery and evil times.” 

“And therefore,” said Father Eustace, “we must walk 
warily — we must not, for example, bring this man — this 
Sir Piercie Shafton, to our house of Saint Mary’s.” 

“But how then shall we dispose of him ?” replied the 
Abbot ; “ bethink thee that he is a sufferer for holy 
Church’s sake — that his patron, the Earl of Northumber- 
land, hath been our friend, and that, lying so near us, he 
may work us weal or woe according -as we deal with his 
kinsman.” 

“And, accordingly,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘for these rea- 
sons, as well as for discharge of the great duty of Chris- 
tian charity, I would protect and relieve this man. Let 
him not go back to Julian Avenel — that unconscientious 
baron would not stick to plunder the exiled stranger — Let 
him remain here — the spot is secluded, and if the accom- 
modation be beneath his quality, discovery will become 
the less likely. We will make such means for his conven- 
ience as we can devise.” 

“ Will he be persuaded, thinkest thou ? ” said the Abbot ; 
“ I will leave my own travelling bed for his repose, and 
send up a suitable easy-chair.” 

“With such easements,” said the Sub-Prior, “he must 
not complain ; and then, if threatened by any sudden dan- 
ger, he can soon come down to the sanctuary, where we 
will harbor him in secret until means can be devised of 
dismissing him in safety.” 

“Were we not better,” said the Abbot, “send him on to 
the court, and get rid of him at once ? ” 

“Ay, but at the expense of our friends— this butterfly 
may fold his wings and lie under cover in the cold air of 
Glendearg ; but were he at Holvrood, he would, did his 
life depend on it, expand his spangled drapery in the eyes 
of the queen and court — Rather than fail of distinction, he 
would sue for love to our gracious sovereign — the eyes of 
all men -would be upon him in the course of three short 
days, and the international peace of the two ends of the 


THE MONASTERY. 


J 95 




island endangered for a creature, who, like a silly moth, 
cannot abstain frbm fluttering round a light.” 

“ Thou hast prevailed with me, Father Eustace,” said the 
Abbot, “and it will go hard but I improve on thy plan — I 
will send up in secret, not only household stuff, but wine 
and wassel-bread. There is a young swankie here who 
shoots venison well. I will give him directions to see that 
the knight lacks none.” 

“Whatever accommodation he can have, which infers 
not a risk of discovery,” said the Sub-Prior, “it is our duty 
to afford him.” 

“Nay,” said the Abbot, “we will do more, and will in- 
stantly despatch a servant express to the keeper of our 
revestiary to send us such things as he may want, even 
this night. See it done, good father.” 

“ I will,” answered Father Eustace ; “ but I hear the 
gull clamorous for some one to truss his points.* He will 
be fortunate if he lights on any one here who can do him 
the office of groom of the chamber.” 

“I would he would appear,” said the Abbot, “for here 
comes the Refectioner with the collation — By my faith, 
the ride hath given me a sharp appetite ! ” 


CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. 

I’ll seek for other aid — Spirits, they say, 

Flit round invisible, as thick as motes 
Dance in the sunbeam. If that spell 
Or necromancer’s sigil can compel them, 

They shall hold council with me. 

James Duff. 

The reader’s attention must be recalled to Halbert 
Glendinning, who had left the Tower of Glendearg imme- 
diately after his quarrel with its new guest, Sir Piercie 
Shafton. As he walked with a rapid pace up the glen, 
Old Martin followed him, beseeching him to be less hasty 
“ Halbert,” said the old man, “you will never live co 
have white hair, if you take fire thus at every spark of 
provocation.” 

* The points were the strings of cord or ribbon (so called, because 
pointed with metal like the laces of women’s stays), which attached the 
doublet to the hose. They were very numerous, *and required assistance to 
tie them properly, which was called trussing. 


196 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ And why should I wish it, old man,” said Halbert, “ if 
I am to be the butt that every fool may aim a shaft of scorn 
against ? — What avails it, old man, that you yourself move, 
sleep, and wake, eat thy niggard meal, and repose on thy 
hard pallet ? — Why art thou so well pleased that the morn- 
ing should call thee up to daily toil, and the evening again 
lay thee down a wearied- out wretch ? Were it not better 
sleep and wake no more, than to undergo this dull ex- 
change of labor for insensibility, and of insensibility for 
labor ? ” 

“God help me,” answered Martin, “there may be truth 
in what thou sayest — but walk slower, for my old limbs 
cannot keep pace with your young legs — walk slower, 
and I will tell you why age, though unlovely, is yet en- 
durable.” 

“ Speak on then,” said Halbert, slackening his pace ; 
“ but remember we must seek venison to refresh the fa- 
tigues of these holy men who this morning have achieved 
a journey of ten miles ; and if we reach not the Brocks* 
burn head we are scarce like to see an antler.” 

“ Then know, my good Halbert,” said Martin, “whom 
I love as my own son, that I am satisfied to live till death 
calls me, because my Maker wills it. Ay, and although I 
spend what men call a hard life, pinched with cold in win- 
ter, and burnt with heat in summer, though 1 feel hard 
and sleep hard, and am held mean and despised, yet I be- 
think me, that were I of no use on the face of this fair 
creation, God would withdraw me from it.” 

“ Thou poor old man,” said Halbert, “and can such a 
vain conceit as this of thy fancied use, reconcile thee to a 
world where thou playest so poor a part ?” 

“ My part was nearly as poor,” said Martin, “ my person 
nearly as much despised, the day that I saved my mistress 
and her child from perishing in the wilderness.” 

“Right, Martin,” answered Halbert; “there, indeed, 
thou didst what might be a sufficient apology for a whole 
life of insignificance.” 

“ And do you account it for nothing, Halbert, that I 
should have the power of giving you a lesson of patience, 
and submission to the destinies of Providence ? Methinks 
there is use for the gray hairs on the old scalp, were it but 
to instruct the green head by precept and by example.” 

Halbert held down his face, and remained silent for a 
minute or two, and r then resumed his discourse : “Martin, 
seest thou aught changed in me of late ? ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


197 


0 “ Surely,” said Martin. “ I have always known you 
hasty, wild, and inconsiderate, rude, and prompt to speak 
at the volley and without reflection ; but now, methinks, 
your bearing, without losing its natural fire, has something 
in it of force and dignity which it had not before. It 
seems as if you had fallen asleep a carle, and awakened a 
gentleman.” 

“ Thou canst judge, then, of noble bearing ? ” said Hal- 
bert. 

“ Surely,” answered Martin, “ in some sort I can ; for I 
have travelled through court, and camp, and city, with my 
master Walter Avenel, although he could do nothing for 
me in the long run, but give me room for two score of 
sheep on the hill — and surely even now, while I speak 
with you, I feel sensible that my language is more refined 
than it is my wont to use, and that — though I know not 
the reason — the rude northern dialect, so familiar to my 
tongue, has given place to a more town-bred speech.” 

“And this change in thyself and me, thou canst by no 
means account for ? ” said young Glendinning. 

“ Change ! ” replied Martin, “ by our Lady it is not so 
much a change which I feel, as a recalling and renewing 
sentiments and expressions which I had some thirty years 
since, ere Tibb and I set up our humble household. It is 
singular, that your society should have this sort of influ- 
ence over me, Halbert, and that I should never have ex- 
perienced it ere now.” 

“ Thinkest thou,” said Halbert, “ thou seest in me aught 
that can raise me from this base, low, despised state, into 
one where I may rank with those proud men, who now 
despise my clownish poverty ? ” 

Martin paused an instant, and then answered, “ Doubt- 
less you may, Halbert ; as broken a ship has come to land. 
Heard ye never of Hughie Dun, who left his Halidome 
some thirty-five years gone by ? A deliverly fellow was 
Hughie — could read and write like a priest, and could 
wield brand and buckler with the best of the riders. I 
mind him— the like of him was never seen in the Halidome 
of Saint Mary’s, and so was seen of the preferment that 
God sent him.” 

“And what was that ?” said Halbert, his eyes sparkling 
with eagerness. 

“Nothing less,” answered Martin, “than body-servant 
to the Archbishop of Saint Andrew’s !” 

Halbert’s countenance fell. — “ A servant— and to a priest ? 


198 


THE MONASTERY. 


Was this all that knowledge and activity could raise him 
to?” 

Martin, in his turn, looked with wistful surprise in the 
face of his young friend. “ And to what could fortune 
lead him farther?” answered he. “The son of a kirk- 
feuar is not the stuff that lords and knights are made of. 
Courage and school-craft cannot change churl’s blood into 
gentle blood, I trow. I have heard, forby, that Hughie 
Dun left a good five hundred punds of Scots money to his 
only daughter, and that she married the Bailie of Pitten- 
weem.” 

At this moment and while Halbert was embarrassed with 
devising a suitable answer, a deer bounded across their 
path. In an instant the cross-bow was at the youth’s 
shoulder, the bolt whistled, and the deer, after giving one 
bound upright, dropped dead on the greensward. 

“ There lies the venison our dame wanted,” said Martin ; 
“ who would have thought of an out-lying stag being so 
low down the glen at this season ? — And! it is a hart of 
grease too, in full season, and three inches of fat on the 
brisket. Now this is all your luck, Halbert, that follows 
you, go where you like. Were you put in for it, I would 
warrant you were made one of the Abbot’s yeoman-prick- 
ers, and ride about in a purple doublet as bold as the 
best.” 

“ Tush, man,” answered Halbert, “ I will serve the Queen 
or no one. Take thou care to have down the venison to 
the Tower, since they expect it. I will on to the moss. I 
have two or three bird-bolts at my girdle, and it may be I 
shall find wild-fowl.” 

He hastened his pace and was soon out of sight. Martin 
paused for a moment, and looked after him. “ There goes 
tne making of a right gallant stripling, an ambition have 
not the spoiling of him — Serve the Queen ! said he. By 
my faith, and she hath worse servants, from all that I e’er 
heard of him. And wherefore should he not keep a high 
head ? They that ettle to the top of the ladder will at 
least get up some rounds. They that mint* at a gown of 
gold will always get a sleeve of it. But come, sir (address- 
ing the stag), you shall go to Glendearg on my two legs 
somewhat more slowly than you were frisking it even now 
on your four nimble shanks. Nay, by my faith, if you be 
so heavy, I will content me with the best of you, and that’s 


* Mint — aim at. 


THE MONASTERY. 


199 


the haunch and the nombles, and e’en heave up the rest 
on the old oak-tree yonder, and come back for it with one 
of the yauds.” * 

While Martin returned to Glendearg with the venison, 
Halbert prosecuted his walk, breathing more easily since 
he was free of his companion. “ The domestic of a proud 
and lazy priest— body-squire to the Archbishop of Saint 
Andrew’s,” he repeated to himself ; “ and this, with the 
privilege of allying his blood with the Bailie of Pitten- 
weem, is thought a preferment worth a brave man strug- 
gling for ; — nay more, a preferment which, if allowed, 
should crown the hopes past, present, and to come, of the 
son of a kirk-vassal ! By Heaven, but that I find in me a 
reluctance to practise their acts of nocturnal rapine, I 
would rather take the jack and lance, and join with the 
Border-riders. — Something I will do. Here, degraded and 
dishonored, I will not live the scorn of each whiffling 
stranger from the South, because, forsooth, he wears tink- 
ling spurs on a tawny boot. This thing— this phantom, 
be it what it will, I will see it once more. Since I spoke 
with her, and touched her hand, thoughts and feelings 
have dawned on me, of which my former life had not even 
dreamed ; but shall I, who feel my father’s glen too nar- 
row for my expanding spirit, brook te be bearded in it by 
this vain gewgaw of a courtier, and in the sight too of 
Mary Avenel ? I will not stoop to it, by Heaven ! ” 

As he spoke thus, he arrived in the sequestered glen of 
Corri-nan-shian, as it verged upon the hour of noon. A 
few moments he remained looking upon the fountain, and 
doubting in his own mind with what countenance the 
White Lady might receive him. She had not indeed ex- 
pressly forbidden his again evoking her ; but yet there 
was something like such a prohibition implied in the 
farewell, which recommended him to wait for another 
guide. / 

Halbert Glendinning did not long, however, allow him- 
self to pause. Hardihood was the natural characteristic of 
his mind ; and under the expansion and modification which 
his feelings had lately undergone, it had been augmented 
rather than diminished. He drew his sword, undid the 
buskin from his foot, bowed three times with deliberation 
toward the fountain, and as often toward the tree, and re- 
peated the same rhyme as formerly — 


Yauds — horses ; more particularly horses of labor. 


200 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Thrice to the holly brake — 
Thrice to the well : — 


Noon gleams on the Lake — 
Noon glows on the Fell — 


I bid thee awake, 

White Maid of Avenel ! 


Wake thee, O wake, 


White Maid of Avenel!” 


His eye was on the holly bush as he spoke the last line ; 
and it was not without an involuntary shuddering that he 
saw the air betwixt his eye and that object become more 
dim, and condense, as it were, into the faint appearance of 
a form, through which, however, so thin and transparent 
was the first appearance of the phantom, he could discern 
the outline of the bush, as through a veil of fine crape. 
But, gradually, it darkened into a more substantial appear- 
ance, and the White Lady stood before him with displeas- 
ure on her brow. She spoke, and her speech was still 
song, or rather measured chant ; but, as if now more 
familiar, it flowed occasionally in modulated blank-verse, 
and at other times, in the lyrical measure which she had 
used at their former meeting. 


“ This is the day when the fairy kind 

Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot, 

And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing wind, 
And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal grot : 
For this is the day that a deed was wrought, 

In which we have neither part nor share, 

For the children of clay was salvation bought, 
But not for the forms of sea or air ! 

And ever the mortal is most forlorn, 

Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn.” 


“ Spirit,” said Halbert Glendinning, boldly, “ it is boot- 
less to threaten one who holds his life at no rate. Thine 
anger can but slay ; nor do I think thy power extendeth, 
or thy will stretcheth, sojhr. The terrors which your race 
produce upon others are vain against me. My heart is 
hardened against fear, as by a sense of despair. If I am, 
as thy words infer, of a race more peculiarly the care of 
heaven than thine, it is mine to .call, it must be thine to 
answer. I am the nobler being.” 

As he spoke, the figure looked upon him with a fierce 
and ireful countenance, which, without losing the simili- 
tude of that which it usually exhibited, had a wilder and 
more exaggerated cast of features. The eyes seemed to * 
contract and become more fiery, and slight convulsions 
passed over the face, as if it was about to "be transformed 
into something hideous. The whole appearance resembled 
those faces which the imagination summons up when it is 
disturbed by laudanum, but which do not remain under the 


201 


THE MONASTERY. 

visionary’s command, and, beautiful in their first appear- 
ance, become wild and grotesque ere we can arrest them. 

But when Halbert had concluded his bold speech, the 
White Lady stood before him with the same pale, fixed, 
and melancholy aspect which she usually bore. He had 
expected the agitation which she exhibited would conclude 
in some frightful metamorphosis. Folding her arms on 
her bosom, the phantom replied — 

“ Daring youth ! for thee it is well, 

Here calling me in haunted dell. 

That thy heart has not quail’d, 

Nor thy courage fail’d, 

And that thou couldst brook 
The angry look 

Of Her of AveneL 
Did one limb shiver, 

Or an eyelid quiver, 

Thou wert lost forever. 

Though I am form’d from the ether blue. 

And my blood is of the unfallen dew, 

And thou art framed of mud and dust, 

’Tis thine to speak, reply I must.” 

“I demand of thee, then,” said the youth, “by what 
charm it is that I am thus altered in mind and in wishes — 
that I think no longer of deer or dog, of bow or bolt — that 
my soul spurns the bounds of this obscure glen — that my 
blood boils at an insult from one by whose stirrup I would 
some days since have run for a whole summer’s morn, 
contented and honored by the notice of a single word ? 
Why do I now seek to mate me with princes, and knights, 
and nobles ? Am I the same, who but yesterday, as it 
were, slumbered in contented obscurity, but who am to- 
day awakened to glory and ambition ? Speak — tell me, if 
thou canst, the meaning of this change ? Am I spell- 
bound ? or have I till now been under the influence of a 
spell, that I feel as another being, yet am conscious of 
remaining the same ? Speak and tell me, is it to thy in- 
fluence that the change is owing?” 

The White Lady replied, — 

“A mightier wizard far than I 

Wields o’er the universe his power ; 

Him owns the eagle in the sky, 

The turtle in the bower. 

Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still, 

He wields the heart of man at will, 

From ill to good, from good to ill, 

In cot and castle-tower.” 


202 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Speak not thus darkly,” said the youth, coloring so 
deeply, that face, neck, and hands were in a sanguine 
glow ; “make me sensible of thy purpose.” 

The spirit answered, — 

“ Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 
Is fill’d with Mary Avenel ! 

Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
In Mary’s view it will not brook? 

Ask it, why thou seek’st to rise 
Among the mighty and the wise ? — 

Why thou spurn’ st thy lowly lot? 

Why thy pastimes are forgot ? 

Why thou wouldst in bloody strife. 

Mend thy luck or lose thy life ? 

Ask thy heart, and it shall tell, 

Sighing from its secret cell, 

’Tis for Mary Avenel.” 

“Tell me, then,” said Halbert, his chedk still deeply 
crimsoned, “ thou who hast said to me that which I dared 
not say to myself, by what means shall I urge my passion 
— by what means make it known ? ” 

The White lady replied, — 

“Do not ask me ; 

On doubts like these thou canst not task me. 

We only see the passing show 
Of human passion’s ebb and flow ; 

And view the pageant’s idle glance 
As mortals eye the northern dance, 

■ When thousand streamers, flashing bright, 

Career it o’er the brow of night, 

And gazers mark their changeful gleams, 

But feel no influence from their beams.” 


“ Yet thine own fate,” replied Halbert, “ unless men 
greatly err, is linked with that of mortals ? ” 

The phantom answered, — • 

, “By ties mysterious link’d, our fated race 

Holds strange connection with the sons of men. 

The star that rose upon the House of Avenel, 

When Norman Ulric first assumed the name, 

That star, when culminating in its orbit, 

Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew, 

And this bright font received it — and a Spirit 
Rose from the fountain, and her date of life 
Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel, 

And with the star that rules it.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


203 


“ Speak yet more plainly,” answered the young Glendin- 
ning ; “ of this I can understand nothing. Say, what hath 
forged thy weirded * link of destiny with the House of 
Avenel ? Say especially, what fate now overhangs that 
house ? ” 

The White Lady replied, — 

“ Look on my girdle — on this thread of gold — 

’Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, 

And, but there is a spell on’t, would not bind, 

Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe. 

But when ’twas donn’d, it was a massive chain, 

Such as might bind the champion of the Jews, 

Even when his locks were longest — it hath dwindled, 

Hath minish’d in its substance and its strength, 

As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel. 

When this frail thread gives way, I to the elements 
Resign the principles of life they lent me. 

Ask me no more of this ! — the stars forbid it.” 

“ Then canst thou read the stars,” answered the youth ; 
“and mayst tell me the fate of my passion, if thou canst 
not aid it ? ” 

The White Lady again replied, — 

“Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 

Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh, 

And the o’er-wearied warder leaves the light-house , 

There is an influence sorrowful and fearful, 

That dogs its downward course. Disastrous passion, 
Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
That lowers upon its fortunes.” 

“And rivalry?” repeated Glendinning ; “it is, then, as 
I feared ! — But shall that English silk-worm presume to 
beard me in my fathers house, and in the presence of 
Mary Avenel ? — Give me to meet him, spirit — give me to 
do away the vain distinction of rank on which he refuses 
me the combat. Place us on equal terms, and gleams the 
stars with what aspect they will, the sword of my father 
shall control their influences.” 

She answered as promptly as before, — 

“Complain not of me, child of clay, 

If to thy harm I yield the way. 

We, who soar in thy sphere above, 

Know not aught of hate or love ; 

As will or wisdom rules thy mood, * 

My gifts to evil turn, or good.” 

* Weirded — fated. 


204 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Give me to redeem my honor,” said Halbert Glendin- 
ning — “give me -to retort on my proud rival the insults he 
has thrown on me, and let the rest fare as it will. If I can- 
not revenge my wrong, I shall sleep quiet, and know 
naught of my disgrace.” 

The phantom failed not to reply, — 

“When Piercie Shafton boasteth high, 

Let this token meet his eye. 

The sun is westering from the dell, 

Thy wish is granted — fare thee well! u 

As the White Lady spoke or chanted these last words, 
she undid from her locks a silver bodkin, around which 
they were twisted, and gave it to Halbert Glendinning , 
then shaking her dishevelled hair till it fell like a veil 
around her, the outlines of her form gradually became as 
diffuse as her flowing tresses, her countenance grew pale 
as the moon in her first quarter, her features became in- 
distinguishable, and she melted into the air. 

Habit inures us to wonders ; but the youth did not find 
himself alone by the fountain without experiencing, though 
in a much less degree, the revulsion of spirits which he 
had felt upon the phantom’s former disappearance. A 
doubt strongly pressed upon his mind, whether it were 
safe to avail himself of the gifts of a spirit which did not 
even pretend to belong to the class of angels, and might, 
for aught he knew, have a much worse lineage than that 
which she was pleased to avow. “ I will speak of it,” he 
said, “ to Edward, who is clerkly learned, and will tell me 
what I should do. And yet, no — Edward is scrupulous 
and wary. I will prove the effect of her gift on Sir Pier- 
cie Shafton if he again braves me, and by the issue, I will 
be myself a sufficient judge whether there is danger in re- 
sorting to her counsel. Home, then, home — and we shall 
soon learn whether that home shall longer hold me ; for 
not again will I brook insult, with my father’s sword by 
my side, and Mary for the spectator of my disgrace.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


205 


{ 


CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. 

I give thee eighteenpence a-day, 

And my bow shalt thou bear, 

And over all the north country, 

I make thee the chief rydere. 

And I thirteenpence a-day, quoth the queen, 

By God and by my faye, 

Come fetch thy payment when thou wilt, 

No man shall say thee nay. 

William of Cloudesley. 

The manners of the age did not permit the inhabitants 
of Glendearg to partake of the collation which was placed 
in the spence of that ancient tower, before the Lord Abbot 
and his attendants, and Sir Piercie Shafton. Dame Glen- 
dinning was excluded both by inferiority of rank and by 
sex, for (though it was a rule often neglected) the Superior 
of Saint Mary’s was debarred from taking his meals in fe- 
male society. To Mary Avenel the latter, and to Edward 
Glendinningthe former, incapacity attached, but it pleased 
his lordship to require their presence in the apartment, and 
to say sundry kind words to them upon the ready and hos- 
pitable reception which they had afforded him. 

The smoking haunch now stood upon the table ; a nap- 
kin, white as snow, was, with due reverence, tucked under 
the chin of the Abbot by the Refectioner ; and naught was 
wanting to commence the repast, save the presence of Sir 
Piercie Shafton, who at length appeared, glittering like 
the sun, in a carnation-velvet doublet, slashed and puffed 
out with cloth of silver, his hat of the newest block, sur- 
rounded by a hatband of goldsmith’s work, while around 
his neck he wore a collar of gold, set with rubies and to- 
pazes so rich, that it vindicated his anxiety for the safety of 
his baggage from being founded upon his love of mere 
linery. This gorgeous collar or chain, resembling those 
worn by the knights of the highest orders of chivalry, fell 
down on his breast, and terminated in a medallion. 

“ We waited for Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the Abbot, 
hastily assuming his place in the great chair which the 
Kitchener advanced to the table with ready hand. 

“I pray your pardon, reverend father, and my good 
lord,” replied that pink of courtesy ; “ I did but wait to cast 
my riding slough, and to transmew myself into some civil 
form meeter for this worshipful company.” 


2o6 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ I cannot but praise your gallantry, Sir Knight,” said 
the Abbot, “ and your prudence, also, for choosing the fit- 
ting time to appear thus adorned. Certes, had that goodly 
chain been visible in some part of your late progress, there 
was risk that the lawful owner might have parted company 
therewith.” 

“This chain, said your reverence ?” answered Sir Pier- 
cie ; “surely it is but a toy, a trifle, a slight thing which 
shows but poorly with this doublet — marry, when I wear 
that of the murrey-colored, double-piled Genoa velvet, 
puffed out with ciprus, the gems, being relieved and set 
off by the darker and more grave ground of the stuff, show 
like stars giving a lustre through dark clouds.” 

“ I nothing doubt it,” said the Abbot, “ but I pray you 
to sit down at the board.” 

But Sir Piercie had now got into his element, and was 
not easily interrupted — “ I own,” he continued, “that slight 
as the toy is, it might perchance have had some captivation 
for Julian — Santa Maria ! ” said he, interrupting himself ; 
“ what was I about to say, and my fair and beauteous 
Protection, or shall I rather term her my Discretion, here 
in presence ! — Indiscreet hath it been in your Affability, O 
most lovely Discretion, to suffer a stray word to have broke 
out of the penfold of his mouth, that might overleap the 
fence of civility, and trespass on the manor of decorum.” 

“ Marry !” said the Abbot, somewhat impatiently, “ the 
greatest discretion that I can see in the matter is, to eat 
our victuals, being hot — Father Eustace, say the Benedi- 
cite, and cut up the haunch.” 

The Sub-Prior readily obeyed the first part of the Abbot’s 
injunction, but paused upon the second — “ It is Friday, 
mos't reverend,” he said in Latin, desirous that the hint 
should escape, if possible, the ears of the stranger. 

“We are travellers,” said the Abbot in reply, “and via- 
toribus licitum est — You know the canon — a traveller must 
eat what food his hard fate sets before him. I grant you 
all a dispensation to eat flesh this day, conditionally that 
you, brethren, say the Confiteor at Curfew time, that the 
knight give alms to his ability, and that all and each of 
you fast from flesh on such day within the next month that 
shall seem most convenient ; wherefore fall to and eat your 
food with cheerful countenances, and you, Father Refec- 
tioner, da mix t us .” 

While the Abbot was thus stating the conditions on 
which his indulgence was granted, he had already half 


THE MONASTERY. 


207 


finished a slice of the noble haunch, and now washed it 
down with a flagon of Rhenish, modestly tempered with 
water. 

“Well is it said,” he observed, as he required from the 
Refectioner another slice, “that virtue is its own reward ; 
for though this is but humble fare, and hastily prepared, 
and eaten in a poor chamber, I do not remember me of 
having had such an appetite since I was a simple brother 
in the Abbey of Dundrennan, and was wont to labor in 
the garden from morning until nones, when our Abbot 
struck the Cymbalum. Then would I enter keen with hun- 
ger, parched with thirst (da mihi innum quczso , et mertim sit) y 
and partake with appetite of whatever was set before us, 
according to our rule ; feast or fast-day, caritas or penitentia , 
was the same to me. I had no stomach complaints then, 
which now crave both the aid of wine and choice cookery, 
to render my food acceptable to my palate, and easy of 
digestion.” 

“ It may be, holy father,” said the Sub-Prior, “ an occa- 
sional ride to the extremity of Saint Mary’s patrimony, 
may have the same happy effect on your health as the air 
of the garden at Dundrennan.” 

“ Perchance, with our patroness’s blessing, such prog- 
resses may advantage us,” said the Abbot ; “ having an 
especial eye that our venison is carefully killed by some 
woodsman that is master of his craft.” 

“ If the Lord Abbot will permit me,” said the Kitchener, 
“ I think the best way to assure his lordship on that im- 
portant point, would be to retain as a yeoman-pricker, or 
deputy-ranger, the eldest son of this good woman, Dame 
Glendinning, who is here to wait upon us. I should know 
by mine office what belongs to killing of game, and I jean 
safely pronounce, that never saw I, or any other coquin - 
arius y a bolt so justly shot. It has cloven the very heart of 
the buck.” 

“ What speak you to us of one good shot, father ?” said 
Sir Piercie ; “ I would advise you that such no more 
maketh a shooter, than doth one swallow make a sum- 
mer — I have seen this springald of whom you speak, and 
if his hand can send forth his shafts as boldly as his tongue 
doth utter presumptuous speeches, I will own him as good 
an archer as Robin Hood.” 

“ Marry,” said the Abbot, “ and it is fitting we know the 
truth of this matter from the dame herself ; for ill advised 
were we to give way to any rashness in this matter, where- 


208 


THE MONASTERY. 


by the bounties which heaven and our patroness provide 
might be unskilfully mangled, and rendered unfit for 
worthy men’s use. — Stand forth, therefore, Dame Glendin- 
ning, and tell to us, as thy liege lord and spiritual Supe- 
rior, using plainness and truth, without either fear or 
favor, as being a matter wherein we are deeply inter- 
ested, Doth this son of thine use the bow as well as the 
Father Kitchener avers to us ? ” 

“ So please your noble fatherhood,” answered Dame 
Glendinning, with a deep courtesy, “I should know some- 
what of archery to my cost, seeing my husband — God 
assoilzie him ! — was slain in the field of Pinkie with an 
arrow-shot, while he was fighting under the Kirk’s banner, 
as became a liege vassal of the Halidome. He was a val- 
iant man, please your reverence, and an honest ; and sav- 
ing that he loved a bit of venison, and shifted for his living 
at a time as Border-men will sometimes do, I wot not of 
sin that he did. And yet, though I have paid for mass 
after mass to the matter of a forty shilling, besides a 
quarter of wheat and four firlots of rye, I can have no 
assurance yet that he has been delivered from purgatory.” 

“ Dame,” said the Lord Abbot, “ this shall be looked 
into heedfully ; and since thy husband fell, as thou sayest, 
in the Kirk’s quarrel, and under her banner, rely upon it, 
that we will have him out of purgatory forthwith — that is, 
always provided he be there. — But it is not of thy husband 
whom we now devise to speak, but of thy son ; not of a 
shot Scotsman but of a shot deer — Wherefore, I say, answer 
me to the point, is thy son a practised archer, ay or no ?” 

“Alack ! my reverend lord,” replied the widow, “and 
my croft would be better tilled, if I could answer your rev- 
erence that he is not. — Practised archer ! — marry, holy sir, 
I would he would practise something else — cross-bow and 
long-bow, hand-gun and hackbut, falconet and saker, he 
can shoot with them all. And if it would please this right 
honorable gentleman, our guest, to hold out his hat at 
the distance of a hundred yards, our Halbert shall send 
shaft, bolt, or bullet through it (so that right honorable 
gentleman swerve not, but hold out steady), and I will for- 
feit a quarter of barley if he touch but a knot of his rib- 
bons. I have seen our old Martin do as much, and so has 
our right reverend the Sub-Prior, if he be pleased to re- 
member it.” 

“ I am not like to forget it, dame,” said Father Eustace ; 
“ for I know not which most to admire, the composure of 


THE MONASTERY. 


209 


the young marksman, or the steadiness of the old mark. 
Yet I presume not to advise Sir Piercie Shafton to subject 
his valuable beaver, and yet more valuable person, to such 
a risk, unless it should be his own special pleasure.” 

“ Be assured it is not,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, some- 
thing hastily ; “ be weil assured, holy father, that it is not. 
I dispute not the lad’s qualities, for which your reverence 
vouches. But bows are but wood, strings are but flax, or 
the silk-worm excrement at best ; archers are but men, 
fingers may slip, eyes may dazzle, the blindest may hit the 
butt, the best marker may shoot a bow’s length beside. 
Therefore will we try no perilous experiments.” 

“ Be that as you will, Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot ; 
“ meanwhile we will name this youth bow-bearer in the 
forest granted to us by good King David, that the chase 
might recreate our wearied spirits, the flesh of the deer 
improve our poor commons, and the hides cover the books 
of our library ; thus tending at once to the sustenance of 
body and soul.” 

“ Kneel down, woman, kneel down,” said the Refec- 
tioner and Kitchener, with one voice, to Dame Glendin- 
ning, -‘and kiss his lordship’s hand, for the grace which he 
1*ias granted to thy son.” 

They then, as if they had been chanting the service and 
the responses, set off in a sort of duetto, enumerating the 
advantages of the situation. 

“A green gown and a pair of leathern galligaskins every 
Pentecost,” said the Kitchener. 

“ Four marks by the year at Candlemas,” answered the 
Refectioner. 

“An hogshead of ale at Martlemas, of the double strike, 
and single ale at pleasure, as he shall agree with the cel- 
larer ” 

“Who is a reasonable man,” said the Abbot, “and will 
encourage an active servant of the convent.” 

“ A mess of broth, and a dole of mutton or beef, at the 
Kitchener’s, on each high holiday,” resumed the Kitchener. 

“The gang of two cows and a palfrey on our Lady’s 
meadow,” answered his brother officer. 

“ An ox-Hlde to make buskins of yearly, because of the 
brambles,” echoed the Kitchener. 

“ And various other perquisites, qua nunc prascribere 
longum ,” said the Abbot, summing, with his own lordly 
voice, the advantages attached to the office of conventual 
bow-bearer. 




210 


THE MONASTERY. 


Dame Glendinning was all this while on her knees, het 
head mechanically turning from the one church officer to 
the other, which, as they stood one on each side of her, had 
much the appearance of a figure moved by clock-work, 
and so soon as they were silent, most devotedly did she 
kiss the munificent hand of the Abbot. Conscious, how- 
ever, of Halbert’s intractability in some points, she could 
not help qualifying her grateful and reiterated thanks for 
the Abbot’s bountiful proffer, with a hope that Halbert 
would see his wisdom, and accept of it. 

“ How,” said the Abbot, bending his brows, “accept of 
it ! Woman, is thy son in his right wits ? ” 

Elspeth, stunned by the tone in which this question was 
asked, was altogether unable to reply to it. Indeed, any 
answer she might have made could hardly have been heard, 
as it pleased the two office-bearers of the Abbot’s table 
again to recommence their alternate dialogue. 

“ Refuse ! ” said the Kitchener. 

“ Refuse ! ” answered the Refectioner, echoing the other’s 
word in a still louder tone of astonishment. 

“ Refuse four marks by the year ! ” said the one. 

“Ale and beer — broth and mutton — cows’ grass ana pal- 
frey’s ! ” shouted the Kitchener. * 

“ Gowns and galligaskins ! ” responded the Refectioner. 

“ A moment’s patience, my brethren,” answered the Sub- 
Prior, “ and let us not be thus astonished before cause is 
afforded of our amazement. This good dame best know- 
eth the temper and spirit of her son — this much I can say, 
that it lieth not toward letters or learning, of which I have 
in vain endeavored to instil into him some tincture. Never- 
theless, he is a youth of no common spirit, but much like 
those (in my weak judgment) whom God raises up among 
a people when he meaneth that their deliverance shall be 
wrought out with strength of hand and valor of heart. 
Such men we have seen marked by a waywardness, and 
even an obstinacy of character, which hath appeared in- 
tractability and stupidity to those among whom they walked 
and were conversant, until the very opportunity hath ar- 
rived in which it was the will of Providence that they 
should be the fitting instrument of great things?” 

“Now, in good time hast thou spoken, Father Eustace,” 
sai^d the Abbot ; “ and we will see this swankie before we 
decide upon the means of employing him. — How say you, 
Sir Piercie Shafton, is it not the court fashion to suit the 
man to the office, and not the office to the man ? ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


211 


“ So please your reverence and lordship,” answered the 
Northumbrian knight, “I do partly, that is, in some sort, 
subscribe to what your wisdom hath delivered — Neverthe- 
less, under reverence of the Sub-Prior, we do not look for 
gallant leaders and national deliverers in the hovels of the 
mean common people. Credit me, that if there be some 
flashes of martial spirit about this young person, which I 
am not called upon to dispute (though I have seldom seen 
that presumption and arrogance were made good upon the 
upshot by deed and action), yet still these will prove in- 
sufficient to distinguish him, save in his own limited and 
lowly sphere — even as the gtaw-worm, which makes a 
goodly show among the grass of the field, would be of little 
avail if deposited in a beacon-grate.” 

“Now in good time,” said the Sub-Prior, “and here 
comes the young huntsman to speak for himself ; ” for, 
being placed opposite to the window, he could observe 
Halbert as he ascended the little mound on which the tower 
was situated. 

“Summon him to our presence,” said the Lord Abbot ; 
and with an obedient start the two attendant monks went 
off with emulous alertness. Dame Glendinning sprung 
away at the same moment, partly to gain an instant to rec- 
ommend obedience to her son, partly to prevail with him 
to change his apparel before coming in presence of the 
Abbot. But the Kitchener and Refectioner, both speaking 
at once, had already seized each an arm, and were leading 
Halbert in triumph into the apartment, so that she could 
only ejaculate, “ His will be done ; but an he had but had 
on him his Sunday’s hose ! ” 

Limited and humble as this desire was, the fates did not 
grant it, for Halbert Glendinning was hurried into the 
presence of the Lord Abbot and his party without a word 
of explanation, and without a moment’s time being allowed 
to assume his holiday hose, which in the language of the 
time, implied both breeches and stockings. 

Yet, though thus suddenly presented amid the centre of 
all eyes, there was something in Halbert’s appearance 
which commanded a certain degree of respect from the 
company into which he was so unceremoniously intruded, 
and the greater part of whom were disposed to consider 
him with hauteur if not with absolute contempt. But his 
appearance and reception we must devote to another 
chapter. 


212 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER NINETEENTH. 

Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and honor. 

There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee through 
The dance of youth, and the turmoil of manhood, 

Yet leave enough for age’s chimney-corner ; 

But an thou grasp to it, farewell ambition, 

Farewell each hope of bettering thy condition, 

And raising thy low rank above the churls 
That till the earth for bread. 

Old Play. 

It is necessary to dwell for some brief space on the ap« 
pearance and demeanor of young Glendinning, ere we pro- 
ceed to describe his interview with the Abbot of St. Mary’s 
at this momentous crisis of his life. 

Halbert was now about nineteen years old, tall and active 
rather than strong, yet of that hardy conformation of limb 
and sinew, which promises great strength when the growth 
shall be complete, and the system confirmed. He was per- 
fectly well made, and, like most men who have that ad- 
vantage, possessed a grace and natural ease of manner, and 
carriage, which prevented his height from being the dis- 
tinguished part of his external appearance. It was not 
until you had compared his stature with that of those 
amongst or near to whom he stood, that you became sen- 
sible that the young Glendinning Avas upwards of six feet 
high. In the combination of unusual height with perfect 
symmetry, ease, and grace of carriage, the young heir of 
Glendearg, notwithstanding his rustic birth and education, 
had greatly the advantage even of Sir Piercie Shafton him- 
self, whose stature was lower, and his limbs, though there 
was no particular point to object to, were on the whole 
less exactly proportioned. On the other hand, Sir Piercie’s 
very handsome countenance afforded him as decided an ad- 
vantage over the Scotsman, as regularity of features and 
brilliance of complexion could give over traits which were 
rather strongly marked than beautiful, and upon whose 
complexion the “skyey influence,” to which he was con- 
stantly exposed, had blended the red and white into the 
purely nut-brown hue, which colored alike cheeks, neck, 
and forehead, and blushed only in a darker glow upon the 
former. Halbert’s eyes supplied a marked and distinguished 
part of his physiognomy. They were large and of a hazel 


THE MONASTERY. 


213 


color, and sparkled in moments of animation with such un- 
common brilliancy, that it seemed as if they actually 
emitted light. Nature had closely curled the locks of dark- 
brown hair, which relieved and setoff the features, such as 
we have described them, displaying a bold and animated 
disposition, much more than might have been expected 
from his situation, or from his previous manners, which 
hitherto had seemed bashful, homely, and awkward. 

Halbert’s dress was certainly not of that description 
which sets off to the best advantage a presence of itself 
prepossessing. His jerkin and hose were of coarse rustic 
cloth, and his cap of the same. A belt round his waist 
served at once to sustain the broadsword which we have 
already mentioned, and to hold five or six arrows and bird- 
bolts, which were stuck into it on the right side, along with 
a large knife hiked with buck horn, or, as it was then called, 
a dudgeon-dagger. To complete his dress, we must notice 
his loose buskins of deer’s-hide formed so as to draw up 
on the leg as high as the knee, or at pleasure to be thrust 
down lower than the calves. These were generally used at 
the period by such as either had their principal occupation, 
or their chief pleasure, in sylvan sports, as they served to 
protect the legs against the rough and tangled thickets 
into which the pursuit of game frequently led them. And 
these trifling particulars complete his external appear- 
ance. 

It is not so easy to do justice to the manner in which young 
Glendinning’s soul spoke through his eyes wdien ushered so 
suddenly into the company of those whom his earliest edu- 
cation had taught him to treat with awe and reverence. 
The degree of embarrassment, which his demeanor evinced, 
had nothing in it either meanly servile, or utterly discon- 
certed. It was no more than became a generous and in- 
genuous youth of a bold spirit, but totally inexperienced, 
who should for the first time be called upon to think and 
act for himself in such society and under such disadvan- 
tageous circumstances. There was not in his carriage a 
grain either of forwardness or of timidity, which a friend 
could have wished away. 

He knelt and kissed the Abbot’s hand, then rose, and re- 
tiring two paces, bowed respectfully to the circle around, 
smiling gently as he received an encouraging nod from the 
Sub-Prior, to whom alone he was personally known, and 
blushing as he encountered the anxious look of Mary 
Avenel, who beheld with painful interest the sort of ordeal 


214 


THE MONASTERY. 


to which her foster-brother was about to be subjected 
Recovering from the transient flurry of spirits into which 
the encounter of her glance had thrown him, he stood com- 
posedly awaiting till the Abbot should express his pleasure. 

The ingenuous expression of countenance, noble form, 
and graceful attitude of the young man, failed not to pre- 
possess in his favor the churchmen in whose presence he 
stood. The Abbot looked round, and exchanged a gracious 
and approving glance with his counsellor, Father Eustace, 
although probably the appointment of a ranger, or bow- 
bearer, was one in which he might have been disposed to 
proceed without the Sub-Prior’s advice, were it but to show 
his own free agency. But the good mien of the young 
man now in nomination was such, that he rather hastened 
to exchange congratulation on meeting with so proper a 
subject of promotion, than to indulge any other feeling. 
Father Eustace enjoyed the pleasure which a well-consti- 
tuted mind derives from seeing a benefit light on a deserv- 
ing object ; for, as he had not seen Halbert since circum- 
stances had made so material a change in his manner and 
feelings, he scarce doubted that the proffered appointment 
would, notwithstanding his mother’s uncertainty, suit the 
disposition of a youth who had appeared devoted to wood- 
land sports, and a foe alike to sedentary or settled occupa- 
tion of any kind. The Refectioner and Kitchener were so 
well pleased with Halbert’s prepossessing appearance that 
they seemed to think that the salary, emoluments, and per- 
quisites, the dole, the grazing, the gown, and the galligas- 
kins, could scarce be better bestowed than on the active 
and graceful figure before them. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, whether from being more deeply 
engaged in his own cogitations, or that the subject was 
unworthy of his notice, did not seem to partake of the 
general feeling of approbation excited by the young man’s 
presence. He sat with his eyes half shut, and his arms 
folded, appearing to be wrapped in contemplations of a 
nature deeper than those arising out of the scene before 
him. But, notwithstanding his seeming abstraction and 
absence of mind, there was a flutter of vanity in Sir 
Piercie’s very hnndsome countenance, an occasional change 
of posture from one striking attitude (or what he con- 
ceived to be such) to another, and an occasional stolen 
glance at the female part of the company, to spy how far 
he succeeded in riveting their attention, which gave a 
marked advantage, ir comparison to the less regular and 


THE MONASTERY . 


2I 5 


more harsh features of Halbert Glendinning, with their 
composed, manly, and deliberate expression of mental 
fortitude. 

Of the females belonging to the family of Glendearg, 
the Miller’s daughter alone had her mind sufficiently at 
leisure to admire, from time to time, the graceful attitudes 
of Sir Piercie Shafton ; for both Mary Avenel and Dame 
Glendinning were waiting in anxiety and apprehension 
the answer which Halbert was to return to the Abbot’s 
proposal, and fearfully anticipating the consequences of 
his probable refusal. The conduct of his brother Edward, 
for a lad constitutionally shy, respectful, and even timid, 
was at once affectionate and noble. This younger son of 
Dame Elspeth had stood unnoticed in a corner, after the 
Abbot, at the request of the Sub-Prior, had honored him 
with some passing notice, and asked him a few common- 
place questions about his progress in Donatus, and in the 
Promptuarium Parvulorum , without waiting for the answers. 
From his corner lie now glided round to his brother’s side, 
and keeping a little behind him, slid his right hand into 
the huntsman’s left, and by a gentle pressure, which 
Halbert instantly and ardently returned, expressed at once 
his interest in his situation, and his resolution to share 
his fate. 

The group was thus arranged, when, after the pause of 
two or three minutes, which he employed in slowly sip- 
ping his cup of wine, in order that he might enter on his 
proposal with due and deliberate dignity, the Abbot at 
length expressed himself thus : — 

“ My son — we, your lawful Superior, and the Abbot, 
under God’s favor'', of the community of Saint Mary’s, 
have heard of your manifold good gifts — a-hem — espe- 
cially touching woodcraft — and the huntsman-like fashion 
in which you strike your game, truly and as a yeoman 
should, not abusing Heaven’s good benefits by spoiling 
the flesh, as is too often seen in careless rangers — a-hem.” 
He made here a pause, but observing that Glendinning 
only replied to his compliment by a bow, he proceeded — 
“ My son, we commend your modesty ; nevertheless, we 
will that thou shouldst speak freely to us touching that 
which we have premeditated for thine advancement, mean- 
ing to confer on thee the office of bow-bearer and ranger, 
as well over the chases and forests wherein our house hath 
privilege by the gifts of pious kings and nobles, whose 
souls now enjoy the fruits of their bounties to the Church, 


2l6 


THE MONASTERY. 


as to those which belong to us in exclusive right of prop, 
erty and perpetuity. Thy knee, my son — that we may, 
with our own hand, and without loss of time, induct thee 
into office.” 

“ Kneel down,” said the Kitchener on the one side ; and 
“ Kneel down,” said the Refectioner on the other. 

But Halbert Glendinning remained standing. 

“ Were it to show gratitude and good-will for your rev- 
erend lordship’s noble offer, I could not,” he said, “ kneel 
low enough, or remain long enough kneeling. But I may 
not kneel to take investure of your noble gift, my Lord 
Abbot, being a man determined to seek my fortune other- 
wise.” 

“ How is that, sir ? ” said the Abbot, knitting his brows ; 
“ do I hear you speak aright ? and do you, a born vassal 
of the Halidome, at the moment when I am destining to 
you such a noble expression of my good-will, propose ex- 
changing my service for that of any other ?” 

“ My lord,” said Halbert Glendinning, “ it grieves me to 
think you hold me capable of undervaluing your gracious 
offer, or of exchanging your service for another. But 
your noble proffer doth but hasten the execution of a de- 
termination which I have long since formed.” 

“ Ay, my son,” said the Abbot, “ is it indeed so ? — right 
early have you learned to form resolutions without con- 
sulting those on whom you naturally depend. But what 
may it be, this sagacious resolution, if I may so far pray 
you ? ” 

“ To yield up to my brother and mother,” answered 
Halbert, “ mine interest in the fief of Glendearg, lately 
possessed by my father, Simon Glendinning : and having 
prayed your lordship to be the same kind and generous 
master to them, that your predecessors, the venerable 
Abbots of Saint Mary’s, have been to my fathers in time 
past ; for myself, I am determined to seek my fortune 
where I may best find it.” 

Dame Glendinning here ventured, emboldened by ma- 
ternal anxiety, to break silence with an exclamation of O 
my son ! ” Edward, clinging to his brother’s side, half 
spoke, half whispered, a similar ejaculation, of “ Brother ! 
brother ! ” 

The Sub-Prior took up the matter in a tone of grave 
reprehension, which, as he conceived, the interest he had 
always taken in the family of Glendearg required at his 
hand. 


THE MONASTERY. 


217 


“Wilful young man,” he said, “what folly can urge thee 
to push back the hand that is stretched out to aid thee ? 
What visionary aim hast thou before thee, that can com- 
pensate for the decent and sufficient independence which 
thou art now rejecting with scorn ? ” 

“ Four marks by the year, duly and truly,” said the Kitch- 
ener. 

“ Cows’ grass, doublet, and galligaskins,” responded the 
Refectioner. 

“ Peace, my brethren,” said the Sub-Prior ; “and may it 
please your lordship, venerable father, upon my petition, 
to allow this headstrong youth a day for consideration, 
and it shall be my part so to indoctrinate him, as to con- 
vince him what is due on this occasion to your lordship, 
and to his family, and to himself.” 

“ Your kindness, reverend father,” said the youth, “ craves 
my dearest thanks — it is the continuance of a long train of 
benevolence toward me, for which I give you my gratitude, 
for I have nothing else to offer. It is my mishap, not your 
fault, that your intentions have been frustrated. But my 
present resolution is fixed and unalterable. I cannot ac- 
cept the generous offer of the Lord Abbot ; my fate calls 
me elsewhere, to scenes where I shall end it or mend it.” 

“ By our Lady,” said the Abbot, “ I think the youth be 
mad indeed — or that you, Sir Piercie, judged of him most 
truly, when you prophesied that he would prove unfit for 
the promotion we designed him — it may be you knew 
something of this wayward humor before ? ” 

“ By the mass, not I,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, with 
his usual indifference. “I but judged of him by his birth 
and breeding ; for seldom doth a good hawk come out of a 
kite’s egg.” 

“ Thou art thyself a kite, and kestril to boot,” replied 
Halbert Glendinning, without a moment’s hesitation. 

“This in our presence, and to a man of worship ? ’’ said 
the Abbot, the blood rushing to his face. 

“Yes, my Lord,” answered the youth; “even in your 
presence I return to this gay man’s face, the causeless dis- 
honor which he has flung on my name. My brave father, 
who fell in the cause of his country, demands that justice 
at the hands of his son ! ” 

“ Unmannered boy ! ” said the Abbot. 

“Nay, my good lord,” said the knight, “ praying pardon 
for the coarse interruption, let me entreat you not to be 
wroth with this rustical — Credit me, the north wind shall 


218 


THE MONASTERY. 


as soon puff one of your rocks from its basis, as aught 
which I hold so slight and inconsiderate as the churlish 
speech of an untaught churl, shall move the spleen of 
Piercie Shafton.” 

“ Proud as you are, Sir Knight,” said Halbert, “ in your 
imagined superiority, be not too confident that you cannot 
be moved.” 

“ Faith, by nothing that thou canst urge,” said Sir Piercie. 

“ Knowest thou, then, this token ? ” said young Glendin- 
ning, offering to him the silver bodkin which he had re- 
ceived from the White Lady. 

Never was such an instant change, from the most con- 
temptuous serenity, to the most furious state of passion, as 
that which Sir Piercie Shafton exhibited. It was the dif- 
ference between a cannon lying quiet in its embrasure, and 
the same gun when touched by the linstock. He started 
up, every limb quivering with rage, and his features so in- 
flamed and agitated by passion, that he more resembled a 
demoniac, than a man under the regulation of reason. He 
clinched both his fists, and thrusting them forward, offered 
them furiously at the face of Glendinning, who was even 
himself startled at the frantic state of excitation which his 
action had occasioned. The next moment he withdrew 
them, struck his open palm against his own forehead, and 
rushed out of the room in a state of indescribable agitation. 
The whole matter had been so sudden, that no person pres- 
ent had time to interfere. 

When Sir Piercie Shafton had left the apartment, there 
was a moment’s pause of astonishment ; and then a general 
demand that Halbert Glendinning should instantly explain 
by what means he had produced such a violent change in 
the deportment of the English cavalier. 

“I did naught to him,” answered Halbert Glendinning, 
“ but what you all saw — am I to answer for his fantastic 
freaks of humor ? ” 

“ Boy,” said the Abbot, in his most authoritative man- 
ner, “ these subterfuges shall not avail thee. This is not 
a man to be driven from his temperament without some 
sufficient cause. That cause was given by thee, and must 
have been known to thee. I command thee, as thou wilt 
save thyself from worse measure, to explain to me by what 
means thou hast moved our friend thus — We choose not 
that our vassals shall drive our guests mad in our very 
presence, and we remain ignorant of the means whereby 
that purpose is effected.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


219 

“So may it please your reverence, I did but show him 
this token,” said Halbert Glendinning, delivering it at the 
same time to the Abbot, who looked at it with much at- 
tention, and then, shaking his head, gravely delivered it 
to the Sub-Prior, without speaking a word. 

Father Eustace looked at the mysterious token with 
some attention ; and then, addressing Halbert in a stern 
and severe voice, said, “Young man, if thou wouldst not 
have us suspect thee of some strange double-dealing in 
this matter, let us instantly know whence thou hadst this 
token, and how it possesses an influence on Sir Piercie 
Shafton?” — It would have been extremely difficult for 
Halbert, thus hard pressed, to have evaded or answered so 
puzzling a question. To have avowed the truth might, 
in those times, have occasioned his being burnt at a stake, 
although, in ours, his confession would have only gained 
for him the credit of a liar beyond all rational credibility. 
He was fortunately relieved by the return of Sir Piercie 
Shafton himself, whose ear caught, as he entered, the sound 
of the Sub-Prior’s question. 

Without waiting until Halbert Glendinning replied, he 
came forward, whispering to him as he passed, “ Be secret— 
thou shalt have the satisfaction thou hast dared to seek for.” 

When he returned to his place, there were still marks 
of discomposure on his brow , but, becoming apparently 
collected and calm, he looked around him, and apologized 
for the indecorum of which he had been guilty, which he 
ascribed to sudden and severe indisposition. All were 
silent, and looked on each other with some surprise. 

The Lord Abbot gave orders for all to retire from the 
apartment, save himself, Sir Piercie Shafton, and the Sub- 
Prior. “And have an eye,” he added, “ on that bold youth, 
that he escape not ; for if he hath practised by charm or 
otherwise, on the health of our worshipful guest, I swear 
by the alb and mitre which I wear, that his punishment 
shall be most exemplary,” 

“ My lord and venerable father,” said Halbert, bowing 
respectfully, “fear not but that I will abide my doom. I 
think you will best learn from the worshipful knight him- 
self what is the cause of his distemperature, and how 
slight my share in it has been.” 

“Be assured,” said the knight, without looking up, how- 
ever, while he spoke, “I will satisfy the Lord Abbot.” 

With these words the company retired, and with them 
young Glendinning. 


220 


THE MONASTERY. 


When the Abbot, the Sub-Prior, and the English knight 
were left alone, Father Eustace, contrary to his custom, 
could not help speaking the first. “ Expound unto us, 
noble sir,” he said, “by what mysterious means the pro- 
duction of this simple toy could so far move your spirit, 
and overcome your patience, after you had shown yourself 
proof to all the provocation offered by this self-sufficient 
and singular youth ?” 

The knight took the silver bodkin from the good father’s 
hand, looked at it with great composure, and, having ex- 
amined it all over, returned it to the Sub-Prior, saying at 
the same time, “In truth, venerable father, I cannot but 
marvel, that the wisdom implied alike in your silver hairs, 
and in your eminent rank, should, like a babbling hound 
(excuse the similitude), open thus loudly on a false scent. 
I were, indeed, more slight to be moved than the leaves of 
the aspen-tree, which wag at the least breath of heaven, 
could I be touched by such a trifle as this, which in no 
way concerns me more than if the same quantity of silver 
were stricken into so many groats. Truth is, that from 
my youth upward, I have been subjected to such a malady 
as you saw me visited with even now — a cruel and search- 
ing pain,- which goeth through nerve and bone, even as a 
good brand in the hands of a brave soldier sheers through 
limb and sinew — but it passes away speedily, as you your- 
selves may judge.” 

“Still,” said the Sub-Prior, “this will not account for 
the youth offering to you this piece of silver, as a token 
by which you were to understand something, and, as we 
must needs conjecture, something disagreeable.” 

“ Your reverence is to conjecture what you will,” said 
Sir Piercie ; “but I cannot pretend to lay your judgment 
on the right scent when I see it at fault. I hope I am not 
liable to be called upon to account for the foolish actions 
of a malapert boy ? ” 

“ Assuredly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ we shall prosecute 
no inquiry which is disagreeable to our guest. Neverthe- 
less,” said he, looking to his Superior, “this chance may, 
in some sort, alter the plan your lordship had formed for 
your worshipful guest’s residence for a brief term in this 
tower, as a place alike of secrecy and of security ; both of 
which, in the terms which we now stand on with England, 
are circumstances to be desired.” 

“ In truth,” said the Abbot, “ and the doubt is Well 
thought on, were it as well removed ; for I scarce know in 


THE MONASTERY. 


221 


the Halidome so fitting a place of refuge, vet see I not 
how to recommend it to our worshipful guest, considering 
the unrestrained petulance of this headstrong youth.” 

“Tush ! reverend sirs — what would you make of me?” 
said Sir Piercie Shafton. “I protest, by mine honor, I 
would abide in this house were I to choose. What ! I take 
no exceptions at the youth for showing a flash of spirit, 
though the spark may light on mine own head. I honor 
the lad for it. I protest I will abide here, and he shall aid 
me in striking down a deer. I must needs be friends with 
him, an he be such a shot : and we will speedily send 
down to my lord Abbot a buck of the first head, killed so 
artificially as shall satisfy even the reverend Kitchener.” 

This was said with such apparent ease and good-humor, 
that the Abbot made no farther observation on what had 
passed, but proceeded to acquaint his guest with the de- 
tails of furniture, hangings, provisions, and so forth, which 
he proposed to send up to the Tower of Glendearg for 
his accommodation. This discourse, seasoned with a cup 
or two of wine, served to prolong the time until the rev- 
erend Abbot ordered his cavalcade to prepare for their re- 
turn to the Monastery. 

“As we have,” he said, “in the course of this our toil- 
some journey, lost our meridian,* indulgence shall be 
given to those of our attendants who shall, from very wea- 
riness, be unable to attend the duty at prime, f and this by 
way of misericord or indulgentia.\ 

Having benevolently intimated a boon to his faithful 
followers which he probably judged would be far from un- 
acceptable, the good Abbot, seeing all ready for his jour- 
ney, bestowed his. blessing on the assembled household — 
gave his hand to be kissed by Dame Glendinning — himself 
kissed the cheek of Mary Avenel, and even of the Miller's 
maiden, when they approached to render him the same 
homage — commanded Halbert to rule his temper, and to 
be aiding and obedient in all things to the English Knight 
— admonished Edward to be discipulus impiger atque strenuus 

* The hour of repose at noon, which, in the middle ages, was em- 
ployed in slumber, and which the monastic rules of nocturnal vigils ren- 
dered necessary. 

\ Prime was the midnight service of the monks. 

\ Misericord, according to the learned work of Fosbrooke on British 
Monachism, meant not only an indulgence or exoneration from particular 
duties, but also a particular apartment in a convent, where the monks as- 
sembled to enjoy such indulgences or allowances as were granted beyond 
the rule. 


222 


THE MONASTERY \ 


— then took a courteous farewell of Sir Piercie Shafton, 
advising him to lie close, for fear of the English Border- 
ers, who might be employed to kidnap him ; and having 
discharged these various offices of courtesy, moved forth 
to the courtyard, followed by the whole establishment. 
Here, with a heavy sigh approaching to a groan, the ven- 
erable father heaved himself upon his palfrey, whose dark 
purple housings swept the ground ; and, greatly comforted 
that the discretion of the animal’s pace would be no longer 
disturbed by the gambadoes of Sir Piercie and his pranc- 
ing war-horse, he set forth at a sober and steady trot upon 
his return to the Monastery. 

When the Sub-Prior had mounted to accompany his 
principal, his eye sought out Halbert, who, partly hidden 
by a projection of the outward wall of the court, stood 
apart from and gazing upon the departing cavalcade, and 
the group which assembled around them. Unsatisfied 
with the explanation he had received concerning the mys- 
terious transaction of the silver bodkin, yet interesting 
himself in the youth, of whose character he had formed a 
favorable idea, the worthy monk resolved to take an early 
opportunity of investigating that matter. In the mean- 
while, he looked upon Halbert with a serious and warning 
aspect, and held up his finger to him as he signed farewell. 
He then joined the rest of the churchmen, and followed his 
Superior down the valley. 


CHAPTER TWENTIETH. 

I hope you’ll give me cause to think you noble, 

And do me right with your sword, sir, as becomes 
One gentleman of honor to another ; 

All this is fair, sir — let us make no days on’t, 

I’ll lead your way. 

Love’s Pilgrimage. 

The look and sign of warning which the Sub-Prior gave 
to Halbert Glendinning as they parted, went to his heart; 
for although he had profited much less than Edward by 
the good man’s instructions, he had a sincere reverence 
for his person ; and even the short time he had for deliber- 
ation tended to show him he was embarked in a perilous 
adventure. The nature of the provocation which he had 
given to Sir Piercie Shafton he could not even conjecture; 


THE MONASTERY. 


223 

but he saw that it was of a mortal quality, and he was now 
to abide the consequences. 

That he might not force these consequences forward by 
any premature renewal of their quarrel, he resolved to 
walk apart for an hour, and consider on what terms he 
was to meet this haughty foreigner. The time seemed 
propitious for his doing so without having the appearance 
of wilfully shunning the stranger, as all the members of 
the little household were dispersing either to perform 
such tasks as had been interrupted by the arrival of the 
dignitaries, or to put in the order what had been deranged 
by their visit. 

Leaving the Tower, therefore, and descending, unob- 
served as he thought, the knoll on which it stood, Halbert 
gained the little piece of level ground which extended 
betwixt the descent of the hill, and the first sweep made 
by the brook after washing the foot of the eminence on 
which the Tower was situated, where a few straggling 
birch and oak trees served to secure him from observation. 
But scarcely had he reached the spot, when he was sur- 
prised to feel a smart tap upon the shoulder, and, turning 
around, he perceived he had been closely followed by Sir 
Piercie Shafton. 

When, whether from our state of animal spirits, want of 
confidence in the justice of our cause, or any other motive, 
our own courage happens to be in a wavering condition, 
nothing tends so much altogether to disconcert us, as a 
great appearance of promptitude on the part of our antag- 
onist. Halbert Glendinning, both morally and constitu- 
tionally intrepid, was nevertheless somewhat troubled at 
seeing the stranger, whose resentment he had provoked, 
appear at once before him, and with an aspect which 
boded hostility. But though his heart might beat some- 
what quicker, he was too high-spirited to exhibit any ex- 
ternal signs of emotion — “ What is your pleasure, Sir Pier- 
cie?” he said to the English knight, enduring without 
apparent discomposure all the terrors which his antagonist 
had summoned into his aspect. 

“ What is my pleasure ? ” answered Sir Piercie ; “ a 
goodly question after the part you have acted toward 
me ! — Young man, I know not what infatuation has led 
thee to place thyself in direct and insolent opposition to 
one who is a guest of thy liege-lord the Abbot, and who, 
even from the courtesy due to thy mother’s roof, had a 
right to remain there without meeting insult. Neither do 


224 


THE MONASTERY. 


I ask, or care, by what means thou hast become possessed 
of the fatal secret by which thou hast dared to offer me 
open shame. But I must now tell thee, that the posses- 
sion of it hath cost thee thy life.” 

“Not, I trust, if my hand and sword can defend it,’' re- 
plied Halbert, boldly. 

“ True,” said the Englishman, “ I mean not to de- 
prive thee of thy fair chance of self-defence. I am 
only sorry to think, that, young and country-bred as 
thou art, it can but little avail thee. But thou must be 
well aware, that in this quarrel I shall use no terms of 
quarter.” 

“Rely on it, proud man,” answered the youth, “that I 
shall ask none ; and although thou speakest as if I lay 
already at thy feet, trust me, that as I am determined 
never to ask thy mercy, so I am not fearful of need- 
ing it.” 

“ Thou wilt, then,” said the knight, “ do nothing to avert 
the certain fate which thou hast provoked with such wan- 
tonness ? ” 

“And how were that to be purchased?” replied Hal- 
bert Glendinning, more with the wish of obtaining some 
farther insight into the terms on which he stood with 
this stranger, than to make him the submission which he 
might require. 

“Explain to me instantly,” said Sir Piercie, “ without 
equivocation or delay, by what means thou wert enabled 
to wound my honor so deeply — and shouldst thou point 
out to me by so doing an enemy more worthy of my resent- 
ment, I will permit thine own obscure insignificance to 
draw a veil over thine insolence.” 

“This is too high a flight,” said Glendinning, fiercely, 
“ for thine own presumption to soar without being checked. 
Thou hast come to my father’s house, as well as I can 
guess, a fugitive and an exile, and thy first greeting to its 
inhabitants has been that of contempt and injury. By 
what means I have been able to retort that contempt, let 
thine own conscience tell thee. Enougli for me that I 
stand on the privilege of a free Scotchman, and will brook 
no insult unreturned, and no injury unrequited.” 

“ It is well, then,” said Sir Piercie Shafton ; “we will dis- 
pute this matter to-morrow morning with our swords. Let 
the time be daybreak, and do thou assign the place. We 
will go forth as if to strike a deer.” 

“ Content,” replied Halbert Glendinning : “ I will guide 


THE MONASTERY. 


225 


thee to a spot where an hundred men might fight and fall 
without any chance of interruption.” 

“ It is well,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton. “ Here then 
we part. — Many will say, that in thus indulging the right 
of a gentleman to the son of a clod-breaking peasant, I 
derogate from my sphere, even as the blessed sun would 
derogate should he condescend to compare and match his 
golden beams with a twinkle of a pale, blinking, expiring, 
grossTed taper. But no consideration of rank shall pre- 
vent my avenging the insult thou hast offered me. We 
bear a smooth face, observe me, Sir Villagio, before the 
worshipful inmates of yonder cabin, and to-morrow we try 
conclusions with our swords.” So saying, he turned away 
toward the tower. 

It may not be unworthy of notice, that in the last speech 
only, had Sir Piercie used some of those flowers of rhetoric 
which characterized the usual style of his conversation. 
Apparently, a sense of wounded honor, and the deep de- 
sire of vindicating his injured feelings, had proved too 
strong for the fantastic affectation of his acquired habits. 
Indeed, such is usually the influence of energy of mind, 
when called forth and exerted, that Sir Piercie Shafton had 
never appeared in the eyes of his youthful antagonist half 
so much deserving of esteem and respect as in this brief 
dialogue, by which they exchanged mutual defiance. As 
he followed him slowly to the tower, he could not help 
thinking to himself, that, had the English knight always 
displayed this superior tone of bearing and feeling, he 
would not probably have felt so earnestly disposed to take 
offence at his hand. Mortal offence, however, had been 
exchanged, and the matter was to be put to mortal arbitra- 
ment. 

The family met at the evening meal, when Sir Piercie 
Shafton extended the benignity of his countenance and 
the graces of his conversation far more generally over the 
party than he had hitherto condescended to do. The 
greater part of his attention was, of course, still engrossed 
by his divine and inimitable Discretion, as he chose to term 
Mary Avenel ; but, nevertheless, there were interjectional 
flourishes to the Maid 6f the Mill, under the title of Come- 
ly Damsel, and to the Dame, under that of Worthy Matron. 
Nay, lest he should fail to excite their admiration by the 
graces of his rhetoric, he generously, and without solicita- 
tion, added those of his voice ; and after regretting bitterly 
the absence of his viol-de-gatnba, he regaled them with a 

15 


226 


THE MONASTERY. 


song, “which,” said he, “the inimitable Astrophel, whom 
mortals call Philip Sydney,* composed in the nonage of 
his muse, to show the world what they are to expect from 
his riper years, and which will one day see the light in that 
not-to-be-paralleled perfection of human wit, which he has 
addressed to his sister, the matchless Parthenope, whom 
men call Countess of Pembroke ; a work,” he continued, 
“ whereof his friendship hath permitted me, though un- 
worthy, to be an occasional partaker, and whereof i may 
well say, that the deep afflictive tale which awakeneth our 
sorrows, is so relieved with brilliant similitudes, dulcet de- 
scriptions, pleasant poems, and engaging interludes, that 
they seem as the stars of the firmament, beautifying the 
dusky robe of night. And though I wot well how much 
the lovely and quaint language will suffer by my widowed 
voice, widowed in that it is no longer matched by my be- 
loved viol-de-gamba, I will essay to give you a taste of the 
ravishing sweetness of the poesy of the un-to-be-imitated 
Astrophel.” 

So saying, he sung without mercy or remorse about five 
hundred verses, of which the two first and the four last 
may suffice for a specimen — 

“ What tongue can her perfections tell, 

On whose each part all pens may dwell. 

* * * if * 

Of whose high praise and praiseful bliss, 

Goodness the pen, Heaven paper is ; 

The ink immortal fame doth send, 

As I began so I must end.” 

As Sir Piercie Shafton always sung with his eyes half 
shut, it was not until, agreeably to the promise of poetry, 
he had fairly made an end, that looking round, he discov- 
ered that the greater part of his audience had, in the mean- 
while, yielded to the charms of repose. Mary Avenel, in- 
deed, from a natural sense of politeness, had contrived to 
keep awake through all the prolixities of the divine Astro- 
phel ; but Mysie was transported in dreams back to the 
dusty atmosphere of her father’s mill. Edward himself, 
who had given his attention for some time, had at length 
fallen fast asleep ; and the good dame’s nose, could its 

*[His “Astrophel and Stella,” originally published at London in 1591, 
was annexed to the numerous editions of the Countess of Pembroke’s “Ar- 
cadia,” by Sir Philip. It would be in vain to attempt to verify the words 
put into the mouth of Sir Piercie Shafton.] 


THE MONASTERY. 


227 


tones have been put under regulation, might have sup- 
plied the bass of the lamented viol-de-gamba. Halbert, 
however, who had no temptation to give way to the charms 
of slumber, remained awake with his eyes fixed on the 
songster ; not that he was better entertained with the 
words, or more ravished with the execution, than the rest 
of the company, but rather because he admired, or per- 
haps envied, the composure, which could thus spend the 
evening in interminable madrigals, when the next morning 
was to be devoted to deadly combat. Yet it struck his 
natural acuteness of observation, that the eye of the gal- 
lant cavalier did now and then, furtively as it were, seek a 
glance of his countenance, as to discover how he was tak- 
ing the exhibition of his antagonist’s composure and 
serenity of mind. 

He shall read nothing in my countenance, thought Hal- 
bert, proudly, that can make him think my indifference 
less than his own. 

And taking from the shelf a bag full of miscellaneous 
matters collected for the purpose, he began with great in- 
dustry to dress hooks, and had finished half-a-dozen of 
flies (we are enabled, for the benefit of those who admire 
the antiquities of the gentle art of angling, to state that 
they were brown hackles) by the time that Sir Piercie had 
arrived at the conclusion of his long-winded strophes of 
the divine Astrophel. So that he also testified a mag- 
nanimous contempt of that which to-morrow should bring 
forth. 

As it now waxed late, the family of Glendearg separated 
for the evening ; Sir Piercie first saying to the dame, that 
“ her son Albert ” 

“ Halbert,” said Elspeth, with emphasis, “Halbert, after 
his goodsire, Halbert Brydone.” 

“ Well, then, I have prayed your son Halbert, that we 
may strive to-morrow, with the sun’s earliness, to wake a 
stag from his lair, that I may see whether he be as prompt 
at that sport as fame bespeaks him.” 

“Alas! sir,” answered Dame Elspeth, “he is but too 
prompt, an you talk of promptitude, at anything that has 
steel at one end of it, and mischief at the other. But lie 
is at your honorable disposal, and I trust you will teach 
him how obedience is due to our venerable father and lord, 
the Abbot, and prevail with him to take the bow-bearer’s 
place in fee ; for, as the two worthy monks said, it will be 
a great help to a widow woman.” 


228 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Trust me, good dame,” replied Sir Piercie, “it is my 
purpose so to indoctrinate him, touching his conduct and 
bearing toward his betters, that he shall not lightly depart 
from the reverence due to them. — We meet, then, beneath 
the birch-trees in the plain,” he said, looking to Halbert, 
“so soon as the eye of day hath opened its lids.”— Halbert 
answered with a sign of acquiescence, and the knight pro- 
ceeded, “And now, having wished to my fairest Discretion 
those pleasant dreams which wave their pinions around the 
couch of sleeping beauty, and to this comely damsel the 
bounties of Morpheus, and to all others the common good- 
night, I will crave you leave to depart to my place of rest, 
though I may say with the poet, 


‘ Ah rest ! — no rest but change of place and posture : 
Ah sleep ! — no sleep but worn-out Nature’s swooning ; 
Ah bed ! — no b£d but cushion filled with stones : 

Rest, sleep, nor bed, await not on an exile.’ ” 


With a delicate obeisance he left the room, evading Dame 
Glendinning, who hastened to assure him he would find his 
accommodations for repose much more agreeable than 
they had been the night before, there having been store of 
warm coverlets, and a soft feather-bed, sent up from the 
Abbey. But the good knight probably thought that the 
grace and effect of his exit would be diminished, if he were 
recalled from his heroics to discuss such sublunary and 
domestic topics, and therefore hastened away without 
waiting to hear her out. 

“A pleasant gentleman,” said Dame Glendinning; “but 
I will warrant him an humorous * — And sings a sweet song, 
though it is somewhat of the longest. — Well, I make mine 
avow he is goodly company — I wonder when he will go 
away.” 

Having thus expressed her respect for her guest, not 
without intimation that she was heartily tired of his com- 
pany, the good dame gave the signal for the family to dis- 
perse, and laid her injunctions on Halbert to attend Sir 
Piercie Shafton at daybreak, as he required. 

When stretched on his pallet by his brother’s side, Hal- 
bert had no small cause to envy the sound sleep which in- 
stantly settled on the eyes of Edward, but refused him any 
share of its influence. He saw now too well what the 

* Humorous — full of whims — thus Shakspeare, “ Humorous as winter.” 
— The vulgar word humorsome comes nearest to the meaning. 


THE MONASTERY. 


229 


spirit had darkly indicated, that, in granting the boon 
which he had asked so unadvisedly, she had contributed 
more to his harm than his good. He was now sensible, 
too late, of the various dangers and inconveniences with 
which his dearest friends were threatened, alike by his dis- 
comfiture or his success in the approaching duel. If he 
fell, he might say personally, “good night all.” But it 
was not the less certain that he should leave a dreadful 
legacy of distress and embarrassment to his mother and 
family, — an anticipation which by no means tended, to 
render the front of death, in itself a grisly object, more 
agreeable to his imagination. The vengeance of the Ab- 
bot, his conscience told him, was sure to descend on his 
mother and brother, or could only be averted by the gen- 
erosity of the victor — And Mary Avenel — he should have 
shown himself, if he succumbed in the present combat, as 
inefficient in protecting her, as he had been unnecessarily 
active in bringing disaster on her, and on the house in 
which she had been protected from infancy. And to this 
view of the case were to be added all those imbittered and 
anxious feelings with which the bravest men, even in a 
better or less doubtful quarrel, regard the issue of a dubi- 
ous conflict, the first time when it has been their fate to 
engage in an affair of that nature. 

But however disconsolate the prospect seemed in the 
event of his being conquered, Halbert could expect from 
victory little more than the safety of his own life, and the 
gratification of his wounded pride. To his friends, to his 
mother and brother — especially to Mary Avenel — the con- 
sequences of his triumph would be more certain destruc- 
tion than the contingency of his defeat and death. If the 
English knight survived, he might in courtesy extend his 
protection to them ; but if he fell, nothing was likely to 
screen them from the vindictive measures which the Abbot 
and convent would surely adopt against the violation of 
the peace of the Halidome, and the slaughter of a protected 
guest by one of their own vassals, within whose house 
they had lodged him for shelter. These thoughts, in which 
neither view of the case augured aught short of ruin to his 
family, and that ruin entirely brought on by his own rash- 
ness, were thorns in Halbert Glendinning’s pillow', and de- 
prived his soul of peace and his eyes of slumber. 

There appeared no middle course, saving one which wa-s 
marked by degradation, and which, even if he stooped to 
it, was by no means free of danger. He might indeed com 


230 


THE MONASTERY. 


fess to the English knight the strange circumstances which 
led to his presenting him with that token which the White 
Lady (in her displeasure as it now seemed) had given him, 
that he might offer it to Sir Piercie Shafton. But to this 
avowal his pride could not stoop, and reason, who is won- 
derfully ready to. be of counsel with pride on such occa- 
sions, offered many arguments to show it would be useless 
as well as mean so far to degrade himself. “ If I tell a tale 
so wonderful,” thought he, “ shall I not either be stigma- 
tized as a liar, or punished as a wizard ? — Were Sir Piercie 
Shafton generous, noble, and benevolent, as the champions 
of whom we hear in romance, I might indeed gain his ear, 
and, without demeaning myself, escape from the situation 
in which I am placed. But as he is, or at least seems to 
be, self-conceited, arrogant, vain, and presumptuous — I 
should but humble myself in vain — and I will not humble 
myself ! ” he said, starting out of bed, grasping his broad- 
sword, and brandishing it in the light of the moon, which 
streamed through the deep niche that served them as a 
window ; when, to his extreme surprise and terror, an airy 
form stood in the moonlight, but intercepted not the re- 
flection on the floor. Dimly as it was expressed, the 
sound of the voice soon made him sensible he saw the 
White Lady. 

At no time had her presence seemed so terrific to him ; 
for when he had invoked her, it was with the expectation 
of the apparition, and the determination to abide the issue. 
But now she had come uncalled, and her presence impressed 
him with a sense of approaching misfortune, and with the 
hideous apprehension that he had associated himself with 
a demon, over whose motions he had no control, and of 
whose powers and quality he had no certain knowledge. 
He remained, therefore, in mere terror, gazing on the ap- 
parition, which chanted or recited in cadence the follow- 
ing lines : 

“ He whose heart for vengeance sued, 

Must not shrink from shedding blood ; 

The knot that thou hast tied with word, 

Thou must loose by edge of sword.” 

“Avaunt thee, false Spirit!” said Halbert Glendinning ; 
“ I have bought thy advice too dearly already — Begone, in 
the name of God ! ” 

The Spirit laughed ; and the cold, unnatural sound of 
her laughter had something in it more fearful than the 


THE MONASTERY. 


231 


usually melancholy tones of her voice. She then re- 
plied : 

“You have summoned me once — you have summoned me twice, 

And without ere a summons I come to you thrice ; 

Unask’d for, unsued for, you came to my glen ; 

Unsued and unask’d I am with you again.” 

Halbert Glendinning gave way for a moment to terror, 
and called on his brother, “ Edward ! waken, waken, for 
Our Lady’s sake !” 

Edward awaked accordingly, and asked what he wanted. 

“Look out,” said Halbert, “look up! seest thou no one 
in the room ? ” 

“ No, upon my good word,” said Edward, looking out. 

“ What ! seest thou nothing in the moonshine upon the 
floor there ? ” 

“No, nothing,” answered Edward, “save thyself resting 
on thy naked sword. I tell thee, Halbert, thou shouldst 
trust more to thy spiritual arms, and less to those of steel 
and iron. For this many a night hast thou started and 
moaned, and cried out of fighting, and of spectres, and of 
goblins — thy sleep hath not refreshed thee — thy waking 
hath been a dream. Credit me, dear Halbert, say the Pater 
and Credo , resign thyself to the protection of God, and thou 
wilt sleep sound and wake in comfort.” 

“It may be,” said Halbert slowly, and having his eye still 
bent on the female form which to him seemed distinctly 
visible — “ it may be — But tell me, dear Edward, seest thou 
no one on the chamber floor but me ? ” 

“No one,” answered Edward, raising himself on his 
elbow; “dear brother, lay aside thy weapon, say thy 
prayers, and lay thee down to rest.” 

While he thus spoke, the Spirit smiled at Halbert as if in 
scorn ! her wan cheek faded in the wan moonlight even 
before the smile had passed away, and Halbert himself no 
longer beheld the vision to which he had so anxiously so- 
licited his brother’s attention. “ May God preserve my 
wits ! ” he said, as, laying aside his weapon, he again threw 
himself on his bed. 

“Amen! my dearest brother,” answered Edward ; “but 
we must not provoke that Heaven in our wantonness which 
we invoke in our misery. Be not angry with me, my dear 
brother — I know not why you have totally of late estranged 
yourself from me — It is true, I am neither so athletic in 
body, nor so alert in courage, as you have been from your 


232 


THE MONASTERY. 


infancy ; yet, till lately, you have not absolutely cast off my 
society — Believe me, I have wept in secret, though I fore- 
bore to intrude myself on your privacy. The time has 
been when you held me not so cheap ; and when, if I could 
not follow the game so closely, or mark it so truly as you, 
I could fill up our intervals of pastime with pleasant tales 
of the olden times, which I had read or heard, and which 
excited even your attention as we sat and ate our provis- 
ion by some pleasant spring — But now 7 I have, though I 
know not why, lost thy regard and affection. Nay, toss 
not thy arms about thee thus wildly,” said the younger 
brother ; “ from thy strange dreams, I fear some touch of 
fever hath affected thy blood — let me draw closer around 
thee thy mantle.” 

“ Forbear,” said Halbert — “your care is needless — your 
complaints are without reason — your fears on my account 
are in vain.” 

“Nay, but hear me, brother,” said Edward. “Your 
speech in sleep, and now even your w T aking dreams, are of 
beings which belong not to this world, or to our race — Our 
good Father Eustace says, that how’beit we may not do 
well to receive all idle tales of goblins and spectres, yet 
there is w r arrant from holy Scripture to believe, that the 
fiends haunt waste and solitary places ; and that those who 
frequent such wildernesses alone, are the prey, or the sport, 
of these wandering demons. And therefore, I pray thee, 
brother, let me go with you when you go next up the glen, 
where, as you w r ell know, there be places of evil reputa- 
tion — Thou carest not for my escort ; but, Halbert, such 
dangers are more safely encountered by the wise in judg- 
ment, than by the bold in bosom ; and though I have small 
cause to boast of my own wisdom, yet I have that which 
ariseth from the written knowledge of elder times.” 

There w r as a moment during this discourse when Hal- 
bert had w 7 ell-nigh come to the resolution of disburdening 
his own breast, by intrusting Edward with all that weighed 
upon it. But when his brother reminded him that this 
was the morning of a high holiday, and that, setting aside 
all other business or pleasure, he ought to go to the Monas- 
tery and shrive himself before Father Eustace, who would 
that day occupy the confessional, pride stepped in and 
confirmed his wavering resolution. “ I w T ill not avow,”,he 
thought, “ a tale so extraordinary, that I may be considered 
as an impostor or something worse — I will not fly from 
this Englishman, whose arm and sword may be no better 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 33 


than my own. My fathers have faced his betters, were he 
as much distinguished in battle as he is by his quaint dis- 
course.” 

Pride, which has been said to save man, and woman, 
too, from falling, has yet a stronger influence on the mind 
when it embraces the cause of passion, and seldom fails to 
render it victorious over conscience and reason. Halbert, 
once determined, though not to the better course, at length 
slept soundly, and was only awakened by the dawn of day. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. 

Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw, he doth it not 
Like one who is his craft’s master — ne’er the less 
I have seen a clown confer a bloody coxcomb 
On one who was a master of defence. 

Old Play. 

With the first gray peep of dawn, Halbert Glendinning 
arose and hastened to dress himself, girded on his weapon, 
and took a cross-bow in his hand, as if his usual sport had 
been his sole object. He groped his way down the dark 
and winding staircase, and undid, with as little noise as 
possible, the fastenings of the inner door, and of the ex- 
terior iron grate. At length he stood free in the court- 
yard, and looking up to the tower, saw a signal made with 
a handkerchief from the window. Nothing doubting that 
it was his antagonist, he paused, expecting him. But it 
was Mary Avenel, who glided like a spirit from under the 
low and rugged portal. 

Halbert was much surprised, and felt, he knew not why, 
like one caught in the act of a meditated trespass. The 
presence of Mary Avenel had till that moment never given 
him pain. She spoke, too, in a tone where sorrow seemed 
to mingle with reproach, while she asked him with em- 
phasis, “What he was about to do ? ” 

He showed his cross-bow, and was> about to express the 
pretext he had meditated, when Mary interrupted him. 

“ Not so, Halbert — that evasion were unworthy of one 
whose word has hitherto been truth. You meditate not 
the destruction of the deer — your hand and your heart are 
aimed at other game — you seek to do battle with this 
stranger.” 


234 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ And wherefore should I quarrel with our guest ? ” an* 
swered Halbert, blushing deeply. 

“There are, indeed, many reasons why you should not,” 
replied the maiden, “ nor is there one of avail wherefore 
you should — yet, nevertheless, such a quarrel you are now 
searching after.” 

“Why should you suppose so, Mary?” said Halbert, 
endeavoring to hide his conscious purpose — “ he is my 
mother’s guest — he is protected by the Abbot and the 
community, who are our masters — he is of high degree also 
— and wherefore should you think that I can, or dare, 
resent a hasty word, which he has perchance thrown out 
against me more from the wantonness of his wit than the 
purpose of his heart ? ” 

“Alas!” answered the maiden, “the very asking that 
question puts your resolution beyond a doubt. Since your 
childhood you were ever daring, seeking danger rather 
than avoiding it— delighting in whatever had the air of 
adventure and of courage ; and it is not from fear that you 
will now blench from your purpose — Oh, let it then be 
from pity! — from pity, Halbert, to your aged mother, 
whom your death or victory will alike deprive of the com- 
fort and stay of her age.” 

“ She has my brother Edward,” said Halbert, turning 
suddenly from her. 

“ She has, indeed,” said Mary Avenel, “ the calm, the 
noble-minded, the considerate Edward, who has thy cour- 
age, Halbert, without thy fiery rashness, — thy generous 
spirit, with more of reason to guide it. He would not 
have heard his mother, would not have heard his adopted 
sister, beseech him in vain not to ruin himself, and tear up 
their future hopes of happiness and protection.” 

Halbert’s heart swelled as he replied to this reproach. 
“Well — what avails it speaking? — you have him that’ is 
better than me — wiser, more considerate — braver, for aught 
I know — you are provided with a protector, and need care 
no more for me.” 

Again he turned to depart, but Mary Avenel laid her 
hand on his arm so gently that he scarce felt her hold, yet 
felt that it was impossible for him to strike it off. There 
he stood, one foot advanced to leave the courtyard, but so 
little determined on departure, that he resembled a travel- 
ler arrested by the spell of a magician, and unable 
either to quit the attitude of motion, or to proceed on 
his course. 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 35 


Mary Avenel availed herself of his state of suspense. 
“ Hear me,” she said, ‘‘hear me, Halbert! — I am an or- 
phan, and even Heaven hears the orphan — I have been 
the companion of your infancy, and if w will not hear me 
for an instant, from whom may Mary Avenel claim so poor 
a boon?” 

“ I hear you,” said Halbert Glendinning ; “ but be brief, 
dear Mary — you mistake the nature of my business — it is 
but a morning of summer sport which we propose.” 

“ Say not thus,” said the maiden, interrupting him, “ say 
not thus to me — others thou mayest deceive, but me thou 
canst not. There has been that in me from the earliest 
youth, which fraud flies from, and which imposture cannot 
deceive. For what fate has given me such a power I 
know not ; but bred an ignorant maiden, in this seques- 
tered valley, my eyes can too often see what man would 
most willingly hide — I can judge of the dark purpose, 
though it is hid under the smiling brow, and a glance of 
the eye says more to me than oaths and protestations do 
to others.” 

“ Then,” said Halbert, “if thou canst so read the hu- 
man heart, — say, dear Mary — what dost thou see in mine ? 
— tell me that — say that what thou seest — what thou read- 
est in this bosom, does not offend thee — say but that , and 
thou shalt be the guide of my actions, and mould me now 
and henceforward to honor or to dishonor at thy own free 
will ! ” 

Mary Avenel became first red, and then deadly pale, as 
Halbert Glendinning spoke. But when, turning round at 
the close of his address, he took her hand, she gently 
withdrew it, and replied, “ I cannot read the heart, Hal- 
bert, and I would not of my will know aught of yours, 
save what beseems us both — I can only judge of signs, 
words, and actions of little outward import, more truly 
than those around me, as my eyes, thou knowest, have 
seen objects not presented to those of others.” 

“ Let them gaze then on one whom they shall never see 
more,” said Halbert, once more turning from her, and 
rushing out of the courtyard without again looking 
back. 

Mary Avenel gave a faint scream, and clasped both her 
hands firmly on her forehead and eyes. She had been a 
minute in this attitude, when she was thus greeted by a 
voice from behind : “Generously done, my most clement 
Discretion, to hide those brilliant eyes from the far infe- 


236 


THE MONASTERY. 


rior beams which even now begin to gild the eastern 
horizon — Certes, peril there were that Phoebus, outshone 
in splendor, might in very shamefacedness turn back his 
car, and rather leave the world in darkness than incur 
the disgrace of such an encounter — Credit me, lovely Dis- 
cretion ” 

But as Sir Piercie Shafion (the reader will readily set 
down these flowers of eloquence to the proper owner) at- 
tempted to take Mary Avenel’s hand, in order to proceed 
in his speech, she shook him abruptly off, and regarding 
him with an eye which evinced terror and agitation, rushed 
past him into the tower. 

The knight stood looking after her with a countenance 
in which contempt was strongly mingled with mortification. 
“By my knighthood!” he ejaculated, “I have thrown 
away upon this rude rustic Phidele a speech, which the 
proudest beauty at the court of Felicia (so let me call the 
Elysium from which I am banished !) might have termed 
the very matins of Cupid. Hard and inexorable was the 
fate that sent thee hither, Piercie Shafton, to waste thy wit 
upon country wenches, and thy valor upon hob-nailed 
clowns ! “But that insult — that affront — had it been offered 
to me by the lowest plebeian, he must have died for it by 
my hand, in respect the enormity of the offence doth 
countervail the inequality of him by whom it is given. 
I trust I shall find this clownish roisterer not less willing 
to deal in blows than in taunts.” 

While he held this conversation with himself, Sir Piercie 
Shafton was hastening to the little tuft of birch trees which 
had been assigned as the place of meeting. He greeted his 
antagonist with a courtly salutation, followed by this com- 
mentary : “ I pray you to observe, that I doff my hat to 
you, though so much my inferior in rank, without deroga- 
tion on my part, inasmuch as my having so far' honored 
you in receiving and admitting your defiance, doth, in the 
judgment of the best martialists, in some sort and for the 
time, raise you to -a level with me — an honor which you 
may and ought to account cheaply purchased, even with 
the loss of your life, if such should chance to be the issue 
of this duello.” 

“For which condescension,” said Halbert, “I have to 
thank the token which I presented to you.” 

The knight changed color, and grinded his teeth with 
rage — “ Draw your weapon ! ” said he to Glendinning. 

“Not in this spot,” answered the youth ; “ we should be 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 37 


liable to interruption — Follow me, and I will bring you to 
a place where we shall encounter no such risk.” 

He proceeded to walk up the glen, resolving that their 
place of combat should be in the entrance of the Corri- 
nan-shian ; both because the spot, lying under the reputa- 
tion of being haunted, was very little frequented, and also 
because he regarded it as a place which to him might be 
termed fated, and which he therefore resolved should wit- 
ness his death or victory. 

They walked up the glen for some time in silence, like 
honorable enemies who did not wish to contend with words, 
and who had nothing friendly to exchange with each other. 
Silence, however, was always an irksome state with Sir 
Piercie, and, moreover, his anger was usually a hasty and 
short-lived passion. As, therefore, he went forth, in his 
own idea, in all love and honor toward his antagonist, he 
saw not any cause for submitting longer to the painful 
restraint of positive silence. He began by complimenting 
Halbert on the alert activity with which he surmounted 
the obstacles and impediments of the way. 

“ Trust me,” said he, “worthy rustic, we have not a 
lighter or a firmer step in our court-like revels, and if duly 
set forth by a silk hose, and trained unto that stately exer- 
cise, your leg would make an indifferent good show in a 
pavin or a galliard. And I doubt nothing,” he added, 
“that you have availed yourself of some opportunity to 
improve yourself in the art of fence, which is more akin 
than dancing to our present purpose?” 

“ I know nothing more of fencing,” said Halbert, “than 
hath been taught me by an old shepherd of ours, called 
Martin, and at whiles a lesson from Christie of the Clint- 
hill — for the rest, I must trust to good sword, strong arm, 
and sound heart.” 

“Marry and I am glad of it, young Audacity (I will call 
you my Audacity, and you will call me your Condescen- 
sion, while we are on these terms of unnatural equality), I 
am glad of your ignorance with all my heart. For we 
martialists proportion the punishments which we inflict 
upon our opposites, to the length and hazard of the efforts 
wherewith they oppose themselves to us. And I see not 
why you, being but a tryo, may not be held sufficiently 
punished for your outrecuidance, and orgillous presump- 
tion, by the loss of an ear, an eye, or even a finger, accom- 
pained by some flesh-wound of depth and severity suited 
to your error — whereas, had you been able to stand more 


THE MONASTERY. 


238 

effectually on your defence, I see not how less than your 
life could have atoned sufficiently for your presumption.” 

“Now, by God and Our Lady,” said Halbert, unable 
any longer to restrain himself, “ thou art thyself over pre- 
sumptuous, who speakest thus daringly of the issue of a 
combat which is not yet even begun — Are you a god, that 
you already dispose of my life and limbs ? or are you a 
judge in the justice-air, telling at your ease and without 
risk, how the head and quarters of a condemned criminal 
are to be disposed of?” 

“Not so, O thou, whom I have well permitted to call 
thyself my Audacity ! I, thy Condescension, am neither 
a god to judge the issue of the combat before it is fought, 
nor a judge to dispose at my ease and in safety of the 
limbs and head of a condemned criminal ; but I am an in- 
different good master of fence, being the first pupil of the 
first master of the first school of fence that our royal Eng- 
land affords, the said master being no other than the truly 
noble, and all-unutterably skilful Vincentio Saviola, from 
whom I learned the firm step, quick eye, and nimble hand 
— of which qualities thou, O my most rustical Audacity, 
art full like to reap the fruits so soon as we shall find a 
piece of ground fitting for such experiments.” 

They had now reached the gorge of the ravine, where 
Halbert had at first intended to stop ; but when he ob- 
served the narrowness of the level ground, he began to 
consider that it was only by superior agility that he could 
expect to make up his deficiency in the science, as it was 
called, of defence. He found no spot which afforded suf- 
ficient room to traverse for this purpose, until he gained 
the well-known fountain, by whose margin, and in front 
of the huge rock from which it sprung, was an amphi- 
theatre of level turf, of small space indeed, compared 
with the gr'3at height of the cliffs with which it was sur- 
rounded on every point save that from which the rivulet 
issued forth, yet large enough for their present purpose. 

When they had reached this spot of ground, fitted well 
by its gloom and sequestered situation to be a scene of 
mortal strife, both were surprised to observe that a grave 
was dug close by the foot of the rock with great neatness 
and regularity, the green turf being laid down upon the 
one side, and the earth thrown out in a heap upon the 
other. A mattock and shovel lay by the verge of the grave. 

Sir Piercie Shafton bent his eye with unusual serious- 
ness upon Halbert Glendinning, as he asked him sternly, 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 3 « 


“ Does this bode treason, young man ? And have you 
purpose to set upon me here as in an emboscata or place 
of vantage ? ” 

“Not on my part, by Heaven !” answered the youth : 
“ I told no one of our purpose, nor would I for the throne 
of Scotland take odds against a single arm.” 

“ I believe thou wouldst not, mine Audacity,” said the 
knight, resuming the affected manner which was become 
a second nature to him ; “ nevertheless this fosse is curi- 
ously well shaped, and might be the masterpiece of Nat- 
ure’s last bed-maker, I would say the sexton — Wherefore, 
let us be thankful to chance or some unknown friend, 
who hath thus provided for one of us the decencies of 
sepulture, and let us proceed to determine which shall 
have the advantage of enjoying this place of undisturbed 
slumber.” 

So saying, he stripped off his doublet and cloak, which 
he folded up with great care, and deposited upon a large 
stone, while Halbert Glendinning, not without some emo- 
tion, followed his example. Their vicinity to the favorite 
haunt of the White Lady led him to form conjectures con- 
cerning the incident of the grave — “ It must have been her 
work ! ” he thought : “ the Spirit foresaw and has pro- 
vided for the fatal event of the combat — I must return 
from this place a homicide, or I must remain here for 
ever ! ” 

The bridge seemed now broken down behind him, and 
the chance of coming off honorably without killing or be- 
ing killed (the hope of which issue has cheered the sinking 
heart of many a duellist), seemed now altogether to be re- 
moved. Yet the very desperation of his situation gave 
him, on an instant’s reflection, both firmness and courage, 
and presented to him one sole alternative — conquest, 
namely, or death. 

“As we are here,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ unaccom- 
panied by any patrons or seconds, it were well you should 
pass your hands over my sides, as I shall over yours ; not 
that I suspect you to use any quaint device of privy 
armor, but in order to comply with the ancient and laud- 
able custom practised on all such occasions.” 

While, complying with his antagonist’s humor, Halbert 
Glendinning went through this ceremony, Sir Piercie 
Shafton did not fail to solicit his attention to the quality 
and fineness of his wrought and embroidered shirt — “ In 
this very shirt,” said he, “ O mine Audacity !— I say in this 


240 


THE MONASl'EKY. 


very garment, in which I am now to combat a Scottish 
rustic like thyself, it was my envied lot to lead the win- 
ning party at that wonderous match at ballon, made be- 
twixt the. divine Astrophel (our matchless Sidney) and the 
right honorable my very good lord of Oxford. All the 
beauties of Felicia (by which name I distinguish our be- 
loved England) stood in the gallery, waving their kerchiefs 
at each turn of the game, and cheering the winners by 
their plaudits. After which noble sport we were refreshed 
by a suitable banquet, whereat it pleased the noble Urania 
(being the unmatched Countess of Pembroke) to accom- 
modate me with her fan for the cooling my somewhat too 
much inflamed visage, to requite which courtesy, I said, 
casting my features into a smiling, yet melancholy fashion, 
O divinest Urania ! receive again that too fatal gift, which 
not like the. Zephyr cooleth, but like the hot breath of the 
Sirocco, heateth yet more that which is already inflamed. 
Whereupon, looking upon me somewhat scornfully, yet 
not so but what the experienced courtier might perceive n 
certain cast of approbative affection ” 

Here the knight was interrupted by Halbert, who had 
waited with courteous patience for some little time till he 
found, that far from drawing to a close, Sir Piercie seemed 
rather inclined to wax prolix in his reminiscences. 

“ Sir Knight,” said the youth, “if this matter be not very 
much to the purpose, we will, if you object not, proceed 
to that which we have in hand. You should have abidden 
in England had you desired to waste time in words, for 
here we spend it in blows.” 

“I crave your pardon, most rusticated Audacity,” an- 
swered Sir Piercie; “truly I become oblivious of every- 
thing beside, when the recollections of the divine court of 
Felicia press upon my wakened memory, even as a saint 
is dazzled when he bethinks him of the beatific vision. 
Ah, felicitous Feliciana ! delicate nurse of the fair, chosen 
abode of the wise, the birthplace and cradle of nobility, 
the temple of courtesy, the fane of sprightly chivalry — Ah, 
heavenly court, or rather courtly heaven ! cheered with 
dances, lulled asleep with harmony, wakened with spright- 
ly sports and tourneys, decored with silks and tissues, glit- 
tering with diamonds and jewels, standing on end with 
double piled velvets, satins, and satinettas ! ” 

“ The token, Sir Knight, the token ! ” exclaimed Hal- 
bert Glendinning, who, impatient of Sir Piercie’s inter- 
minable oratory, reminded him of the ground of their quar- 


THE MONASTERY. 


241 


rel, as the best way to compel him to the purpose of 
their meeting. 

And he judged right ; for Sir Piercie Shafton no sooner 
heard him speak, then he exclaimed, “Thy death-hour has 
struck — betake thee to thy sword — Via ! ” 

Both swords were unsheathed, and the combatants com- 
menced their engagement. Halbert became immediately 
aware, that, as he had expected, he was far inferior to his 
adversary in the use of his weapon. Sir Piercie Shafton 
had taken no more than his own share of real merit, when 
he termed himself an absolutely good fencer ; and Glen- 
dinning soon found that he should have great difficulty in 
escaping with life and honor from such a master of the 
sword. The English knight was master of all the mystery 
of the stoccata, imbrocata , punto-reverso, incar tata , and so 
forth, which the Italian masters of defence had lately in- 
troduced into general practice. But Glendinning, on his 
part, was no novice in the principles of the art, according 
to the old Scottish fashion, and possessed the first of all 
qualities, a steady and collected mind. At first, being de- 
sirous to try the skill, and become acquainted with the 
play of his enemy, he stood on his defence, keeping his 
foot, hand, eye, and body, in perfect unison, and holding 
his sword short, with the point toward his antagonist’s 
face, so that Sir Piercie, in order to assail him, was erbliged 
to make actual passes, and could not avail himself of his 
skill in making feints ; while, on the other hand, Halbert 
was prompt to parry these attacks, either by shifting his 
ground, or with the sword. The consequence was, that 
after two or three sharp attempts on the part of Sir Pier- 
cie, which were evaded or disconcerted by the address of 
his opponent, he began to assume the defensive in his turn, 
fearful of giving some advantage by being repeatedly the 
assailant. But Halbert was too cautious to press on a 
swordsman whose dexterity had already more than once 
placed him within a hair’s-breadth of death, which he had 
only escaped by uncommon watchfulness and agility. 

When each had made a feint or two, there was a pause 
in the conflict, both as if by one assent dropping their 
swords’ points, and looking on each other for a moment 
without speaking. At length Halbert Glendinning, who 
felt perhaps more uneasy on account of his family than he 
had done before he had displayed his own courage, and 
proved the strength of his antagonist, could not help say- 
sug, “ Is the subject of our quarrel, Sir Knight, so mor- 
16 • 


242 


THE MONASTERY. 


tal, that one of our two bodies must needs fill up that 
grave ? or may we with honor, having proved ourselves 
against each other, sheathe our swords and depart friends?” 

“ Valiant and most rustical Audacity,” said the Southron 
knight, “ to no man on earth could you have put a ques- 
tion on the code of honor, who was more capable of ren- 
dering you a reason. Let us pause for the space of one 
venue, until I give you my opinion on this dependence,* 
for certain it is, that brave men should not run upon their 
fate like brute and furious wild beasts, but should slay each 
other deliberately, decently, and with reason. Therefore 
if we coolly examine the state of our dependence, we may 
the better apprehend whether the sisters three have doomed 
one of us to expiate the same with his blood — Dost thou 
understand me ? ” 

“ I have heard Father Eustace,” said Halbert, after a 
moment’s recollection, “ speak of the three furies, with 
their thread and their shears.” 

“Enough — enough,” — interrupted Sir Piercie Shafton, 
crimsoning with a new fit of rage, “ the thread of thy life 
is spun ! ” 

And with these words he attacked with the utmost 
ferocity the Scottish youth, who had but just time to throw 
himself in a posture of defence. But the rash fury of the 
assailant, as frequently happens, disappointed its own pur- 
pose ; for, as he made a desperate thrust, Halbert Glen- 
dinning avoided it, and ere the knight could recover his 
weapon, requited him (to use his own language) with a 
resolute stoccata, which passed through his body, and Sir 
Piercie Shafton fell to the ground. 

* Dependence — a phrase among the brethren of the sword for an exist, 
ing quarrel. 


THE MONASTERY. 


243 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. 

Yes, life hath left him — every busy thought, 

Each fiery passion, every strong affection, 

All sense of outward ill and inward sorrow, 

Are fled at once from the pale trunk before me ; 

And I have given that which spoke and moved, 

Thought, acted, suffer’d as a living man, 

To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, 

Soon the foul food for reptiles. 

Old Play. 

I believe few successful duellists (if the word successful 
can be applied to a superiority so fatal) have beheld their 
dead antagonist stretched on the earth at their feet, with- 
out wishing they could redeem with their own blood that 
which it has been their fate to spill. Least of all could 
such indifference be the lot of so young a man as Halbert 
Glendinning, who, unused to the sight of human blood, 
was not only struck with sorrow, but with terror, when he 
beheld Sir Piercie Shafton lie stretched on the greensward 
before him, vomiting gore as if impelled by the strokes of 
a pump. He threw his bloody sword on the ground, and 
hastened to kneel down and support him, vainly striving 
at the same time to stanch his wound, which seemed rather 
to bleed inwardly than externally. 

The unfortunate knight spoke at intervals, when the 
syncope would permit him, and his words, so far as intel- 
ligible, partook of his affected and conceited, yet not un- 
generous character. 

“Most rustical youth,” he said, “thy fortune hath pre- 
vailed over knightly skill — and Audacity hath overcome 
Condescension, even as the kite hath sometimes hawked 
at and struck down the falcon-gentle. Fly and save thy- 
self ! — Take my purse — it is in the nether pocket of my 
carnation-colored hose — and is worth a clown’s acceptance. 
See that my mails, with my vestments, be sent to the Mon- 
astery of Saint Mary’s ” — (here his voice grew weak, and 
his mind and recollection seemed to waver) — “ I bestow 
the cut velvet jerkin, with close breeches conforming — for 
— oh ! — the good of my soul.” 

“Be of good comfort, sir,” said Halbert, half distracted 
with his agony of pity and remorse. “ I trust you shall 
yet do well — Oh for a leech ! ” 


THE MONASTERY, 


^44 

“ Were there twenty physicians, O most generous 
Audacity, and that were a grave spectacle — I might not 
survive, my life is ebbing fast. Commend me to the rus- 
tical nymph whom I called my Discretion — O Claridiana ! 
— true empress of this bleeding heart — which now bleedeth 
in sad earnest ! Place me on the ground at my length, 
most rustical victor, born to quench the pride of the burn- 
ing light of the most felicitous court of Feliciana — O saints 
and angels — knights and ladies — masks and theatres — 
quaint devices — chain-work and broidery— love, honor, and 
beauty ! ” 

While muttering these last words, which slid from him, 
as it were, unawares, while doubtless he was recalling to 
mind the glories of the English court, the gallant Sir 
Piercie Shafton stretched out his limbs — groaned deeply, 
shut his eyes, and became motionless. 

The victor tore his hair for very sorrow, as he looked on 
the pale countenance of his victim. Life, he thought, had 
not utterly fled, but without better aid than his own, he 
saw not how it could be preserved. 

“Why,” he exclaimed in vain penitence, “why did I pro- 
voke him to an issue so fatal ? Would to God I had sub- 
mitted to the worst insult man could receive from man, 
rather than be the bloody instrument of this bloody deed 
— and doubly cursed be this evil-boding spot, which, 
haunted as I knew it to be by a witch or a devil, I yet 
chose for the place of combat ! In any other place, save 
this, there had been help' to be gotten by speed of foot, or 
by uplifting of voice — but here there is no one to be found 
by search, no one to hear my shouts, save the evil spirit 
who has counselled this mischief. It is not her hour — I 
will essay the spell, howsoever ; and if she can give me aid, 
she shall do it, or know of what a madman is capable even 
against those of another world ! ” 

He spurned his bloody shoe from his foot, and repeated 
the spell with which the reader is well acquainted ; but 
there was neither voice, apparition, nor signal of answer. 
The youth, in the impatience of his despair, and with the 
rash hardiness which formed the basis of his character, 
shouted aloud, “ Witch — Sorceress — Fiend ! — art thou deaf 
to my cries of help, and so ready to appear and answer 
those of vengeance ? Arise and speak to me, or I will 
choke up thy fountain, tear down thy hollybush, and leave 
thy haunt as waste and bare as thy fatal assistance has 
made me waste of comfort and bare of counsel ! ” — This 


THE MO HAS THEY. 


24$ 


furious and raving invocation was suddenly interrupted 
by a distant sound, resembling a hollo, from the gorge of 
the ravine. “ Now may Saint Mary be praised,” said the 
youth, hastily fastening his sandal, “ I hear the voice of 
some living man, who may give me counsel and help in 
this fearful extremity.” 

Having donned his sandal, Halbert Glendinning, halloo- 
ing at intervals, in answer to the sound, which" he had 
heard, ran with the speed of a hunted buck down the 
rugged defile, as if paradise had been before him, hell 
and all her furies behind, and his eternal happiness or 
misery had depended upon the speed which he exerted. 
In a space incredibly short for any one but a Scottish 
mountaineer, having his nerves strung by the deepest and 
most passionate interest, the youth reached the entrance 
of the ravine, through which tlie rill that flows down Corri- 
nan-shian discharges itself, and unites with the brook that 
waters the little valley of Glendearg. 

Here he paused, and looked around him upward and 
downward through the glen, without perceiving a human 
form. His heart sank within him. But the windings of 
the glen intercepted his prospect, and the person, whose 
voice he had heard, might therefore be at no great dis- 
tance, though not obvious to his sight. The branches of an 
oak-tree, which shot straight out from the face of a tall 
cliff, proffered to his bold spirit, steady head, and active 
limbs, the means of ascending it as a place of out-look, 
although the enterprise was what most men would have 
shrunk from. But by one bound from the earth, the active 
youth caught hold of the lower branch, and swung himself 
up into the tree, and in a minute more gained the top of 
the cliff, from which he could easily descry a human figure 
descending the valley. It was not that of a shepherd, or 
of a hunter, and scarcely any others used to traverse this 
deserted solitude, especially coming from the north, since 
the reader may remember that the brook took its rise from 
an extensive and dangerous morass which lay in that di- 
rection. 

But Halbert Glendinning did not pause to consider who 
the traveller might be, or what might be the purpose of 
his journey. To know that he saw a human being, and 
might receive in the extremity of his distress, the counte- 
nance and advice of a fellow-creature, was enough for him 
at the moment. He threw himself from the pinnacle of 
the cliff once more into the arms of the projecting oak- 


246 


THE MONASTERY. 


tree, whose boughs -waved in middle air, anchored by the 
roots in a huge rift or chasm of the rock. Catching at the 
branch which was nearest to him, he dropped himself from 
that height upon the ground ; and such was the athletic 
springiness of his youthful sinews, that he pitched there 
as lightly, and with as little injury, as the falcon stooping 
from her wheel. 

To resume his race at full speed up the glen, was the 
work of an instant ; and as he turned angle after angle of 
the indented banks of the valley, without meeting that 
which he sought, he became half afraid that the form 
which he had seen at such a distance had already melted 
into thin air, and was either a deception of his own imag- 
ination, or of the elementary spirits by which the valley 
was supposed to be haunted. 

But, to his inexpressible joy, as he turned round the 
base of a huge and distinguished crag, he saw, straight be- 
fore and very near to him, a person, whose dress, as he 
viewed it hastily, resembled that of a pilgrim. 

He was a man of advanced life, and wearing a long 
beard, having on his head a large slouched hat, without 
either band or brooch. His dress was a tunic of black 
serge, which, like those commonly called hussar-cloaks, 
had an upper part, which covered the arms and fell down 
on the lower ; a small scrip and bottle, which hung at his 
back, with a stout staff in his hand, completed his equi- 
page. His step was feeble, like that of one exhausted by 
a toilsome journey. 

“ Save ye, good father ! ” said the youth. “ God and 
Our Lady have sent you to my assistance.” 

“And in what, my son, can so frail a creature as I am, 
be of service to you ? ” said the old man, not a little sur- 
prised at being thus accosted by so handsome a youth, his 
features discomposed by anxiety, his face flushed with 
exertion, his hands and much of his dress stained with 
blood. 

“A man bleeds to death in the valley here, hard by. 
Come with me — come with me ! You are aged — you have 
experience — you have at least your senses — and mine have 
well-nigh left me.” 

“ A man — and bleeding to death — and here in this deso- 
late spot ! ” said the stranger. 

“ Stay not to question it, father,” said the youth, “ but 
come instantly to his rescue. Follow me — follow me, 
yvithout an instant’s delay.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


24 1 


“Nay, but, my son,” said the old man, “we do not 
lightly follow the guides who present themselves thus sud- 
denly in the bosom of a howling wilderness. Ere I follow 
thee, thou must expound to me thy name, thy purpose, 
and thy cause.” 

“ There is no time to expound anything,” said Halbert ; 
“ I tell thee a man’s life is at stake, and thou must come to 
aid him, or I will carry thee thither by force.” 

“Nay? thou shalt not need,” said the traveller, “if it in- 
deed be as thou sayest, I will follow thee of free-will — the 
rather that I am not wholly unskilled in leech-craft, and 
have in my scrip that which may do thy friend a service — 
Yet walk more slowly, I pray thee, for I am already well- 
nigh forespent with travel.” 

With the indignant impatience of the fiery steed when 
compelled by his rider to keep pace with some slow drudge 
upon the highway, Halbert accompanied the wayfarer, 
burning with anxiety, which he endeavored to subdue, that 
he might not alarm his companion, who was obviously 
afraid to trust him. When they reached the place where 
they were to turn off the wider glen into the Corri, the 
traveller made a doubtful pause, as if unwilling to leave 
the broader path — “Young man,” he said, “if thou 
meanest aught but good to these gray hairs, thou wilt gain 
little by thy cruelty — I have no earthly treasure to tempt 
either robber or murderer.” 

“And I,” said the youth, “am neither — and yet — God 
of Heaven ! — I may be a murderer, unless your aid comes 
in time to this wounded wretch !” 

“Is it even so?” said the traveller; “and do human 
passions disturb the breast of nature, even in her deepest 
solitude ? — Yet why should I marvel that where darkness 
abides the works of darkness should abound ? — By its 
fruits is the tree known — Lead on, unhappy youth — I fol- 
low thee ! ” 

And with better will to the journey than he had evinced 
hitherto, the stranger exerted himself to the uttermost, and 
seemed to forget his own fatigue in his efforts to keep pace 
with his impatient guide. 

What was the surprise of Halbert Glendinning, when, 
upon arriving at the fatal spot, he saw T no appearance of 
the body of Sir Piercie Shafton ! The traces of the fray 
were otherwise sufficiently visible. The knight’s cloak had 
indeed vanished as well as his body, but his doublet re- 
mained where he had laid it down, and the turf on which 


248 


THE MONASTERY. 


he had been stretched was stained with blood in many a 
dark crimson spot. 

As he gazed round him in terror and astonishment, Hal- 
bert’s eyes fell upon the place of sepulture which had so 
lately appeared to gape for a victim. It was no longer 
open, and it seemed that earth had received the expected 
tenant ; for the usual narrow hillock was piled over what 
had lately been an open grave, and the green sod was ad- 
justed over all with the accuracy of an experienced sexton. 
Halbert stood aghast. The idea rushed on his mind irre- 
sistibly, that the earth-heap before him enclosed what had 
lately been a living, moving, and sentient fellow-creature, 
whom, on little provocation, his fell act had reduced to a 
clod of the valley, as senseless and as cold as the turf under 
which he rested. The hand that scooped the grave had 
completed its work ; and whose hand could it be save that 
of the mysterious being of doubtful quality, whom his 
rashness had invoked, and whom he had suffered to inter- 
mingle in his destinies ? 

As he stood with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, bitter- 
ly rueing his rashness, he was roused by the voice of the 
stranger, whose suspicions of his guide had again been 
awakened by finding the scene so different from what Hal- 
bert had led him to expect — “Young man,” he said, “ hast 
thou baited thy tongue with falsehood to cut perhaps only 
a few days from the life of one whom Nature will soon 
call home, without guilt on thy part to hasten his journey ?” 

“ By the blessed Heaven ! — by our dear Lady ! ” ejacu- 
lated Halbert 

“ Swear not at all ! ” said the stranger, interrupting him, 
“ neither by Heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by earth, 
for it is his footstool — nor by the creatures whom he hath 
made, for they are but earth and clay as we are. Let thy 
yea be yea, and thy nay, nay. Tell me, in a word, why 
and for what purpose thou hast feigned a tale, to lead a 
bewildered traveller yet farther astray ? ” 

“ As* I am a Christian man,” said Glendinning, “ I left 
him here bleeding to death — and now I nowhere spy him, 
and much I doubt that the tomb that thou seest has closed 
on his mortal remains ! ” 

“And who is he for whose fate thou art so anxious?” 
said the stranger ; “ or how is it possible that this wounded 
man could have been either removed from, or interred in, 
a place so solitary?” 

“ His name,” said Halbert, after a moment’s pause, “ is 


THE MONASTERY. 


249 


Piercie Shafton — there, on that very spot, 1 left him bleed- 
ing ; and what power has conveyed him hence, I know no 
more than thou dost.” 

“ Piercie Shafton ? ” said the stranger ; “ Sir Piercie 
Shafton of Wilverton, a kinsman, as it is said, of the great 
Piercie of Northumberland ? If thou hast slain him, to re- 
turn to the territories of the proud Abbot is to give thy 
neck to the gallows. He is well known, that Piercie ShaT 
ton ; the meddling tool of wiser plotters — a harebrained 
trafficker in treason — a champion of the Pope, employed 
as a forlorn hope by those more politic heads, who have 
more will to work mischief, than valor to encounter dan- 
ger. — Come with me, youth, and save thyself from the evil 
consequences of this b deed — Guide me to the Castle of 
Avenel, and thy reward shall- be protection and safety.” 

Again Halbert paused, and summoned his mind to a hasty 
council. The vengeance with which the Abbot was likely 
to visit the slaughter of Shafton, his friend, and in some 
measure his guest, was likely to be severe ; yet, in the vari- 
ous contingencies which he had considered previous to 
their duel, he had unaccountably omitted to reflect what 
was to be his line of conduct* in case of Sir Piercie falling 
by his hand. If he returned to Glendearg, he was sure to 
draw on his whole family, including Mary Avenel, the re- 
sentment of the Abbot and community, whereas it was 
possible that flight might make him be regarded as the 
sole author of the deed, and might avert the indignation 
of the monks from the rest of the inhabitants of his pater- 
nal tower. Halbert recollected also the favor expressed 
for the household, and especially for Edward, by the Sub- 
Prior ; and he conceived that he could, by communicating 
his own guilt to that worthy ecclesiastic, when at a distance 
from Glendearg, secure his powerful interposition in favor 
of his family. These thoughts rapidly passed through 
his mind, and he determined on flight. The stranger’s 
company, and his promised protection, came in aid of that 
resolution ; but he was unable to reconcile the invitation 
which the old man gave him to accompany liiVn for safety 
to the Castle of Avenel, with the connections of Julian, 
the present usurper of that inheritance. “Good Father,” 
he said, “ I fear that you mistake the man with whom you 
wish me to harbor. Avenel guided Piercie Shafton into 
Scotland, and his henchman, Christie of the Clinthill, 
brought the Southron hither.” 

“ Of that,” said the old man, “ I am well aware. Yet if 


250 THE MONASTERY. 

thou wilt trust to me, as I have shown no reluctance to 
confide in thee, thou shalt find with Julian Avenel wel- 
come, or at least safety.” 

“Father,” replied Halbert, “though I can ill reconcile 
what thou sayest with what Julian Avenel hath done, yet 
caring little about the safety of a creature so lost as my- 
self, and as thy words seem those of truth and honesty, 
and finally, as thou didst render thyself frankly up to my 
conduct, I will return the confidence thou hast shown, and 
accompany thee to the Castle of Avenel by a road which 
thou thyself couldst never have discovered.” He led the 
way, and the old man followed for some time # in silence. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. 

’Tis when the wound is stiffening with the cold, 

The warrior first feels pain — ’tis when the heat 
And fiery fever of his soul is pass’d, 

The sinner feels remorse. 

Old Play. 

• 

The feelings of compunction with which Halbert Glen- 
dinning was visited upon this painful occasion, were deeper 
than belonged to an age and country in which human life 
was held so cheap. They fell far short certainly of those 
which might have afflicted a mind regulated by better re- 
ligious precepts, and more strictly trained under social 
laws ; but still they were deep and severely felt, and di- 
vided in Halbert’s heart even the regret with which he 
parted from Mary Avenel and the tower of his fathers. 

The old traveller walked silently by his side for some 
time, and then addressed him. — “ My son, it has been 
said that sorrow must speak or die — Why art thou so 
much cast down? — Tell me thy unhappy tale, and it may 
be that my gray head may devise counsel and aid for your 
young life.” 

“Alas!” ^iid Halbert Glendinning, “ can you wonder 
why I am cast down ? — I am at this instant a fugitive from 
my father’s house, from my mother, and from my friends, 
and I bear on my head the blood of a man who injured 
me but in idle words, which I have thus bloodily requited. 
My heart now tells me I have done evil — it were harder 
than these rocks if it could bear unmoved the thought, 
that I have sent this man to a long account, unhousled 
and unshrieved ! ” 


THE MONASTERY, 


2 5 * 


a Pause there, my son,” said the traveller. “That thou 
hast defaced God’s image in thy neighbor’s person — that 
thou hast sent dust to dust in idle wrath or idler pride, is 
indeed a sin of the deepest dye— that thou has cut short 
the space which Heaven might have allowed him for re- 
pentance, makes it yet more deadly— but for all this there 
is balm in Gilead.” 

“ I understand you not, father,” said Halbert, struck by 
the solemn tone which was assumed by his companion. 

The old man proceeded. “Thou hast slain thine enemy 
— it was a cruel deed : thou hast cut him off perchance in 
his sins — it is a fearful aggravation. Do yet by my coun- 
sel, and in lieu of him whom thou hast perchance con- 
signed to the kingdom of Satan, let thine efforts wrest 
another subject from the reign of the Evil One.” 

“ I understand you, father,” said Halbert ; “thou wouldst 
have me atone for my rashness by doing service to the 
soul of my adversary — But how may this be ? I have no 
money to purchase masses, and gladly would I go bare- 
foot to the Holy Land to free his spirit from purgatory, 
only that ” ■ ■ 

“My son,” said the old man, interrupting him, “the 
sinner for whose redemption I entreat you to labor, is not 
the dead but the living. It is not for the soul of thine 
enemy I would exhort thee to pray — that has already had 
its final doom from a Judge as merciful as He is just ; nor 
wert thou to coin that rock into ducats, and obtain a mass 
for each one, would it avail the departed spirit. Where 
the tree hath fallen, it must lie. But the sapling, which 
hath in it yet the vigor and juice of life, may be bended 
to the point to which it ought to incline.” 

“ Art thou a priest, father ? ” said the young man, “ or 
by what commission dost thou talk of such high matters ?” 

“ By that of my Almighty Master,” said the traveller, 
“under whose banner I am an enlisted soldier.” 

Halbert’s acquaintance with religious matters was no 
deeper than could be derived from the Archbishop of 
Saint Andrews’ Catechism, and the pamphlet called the 
Twapennie Faith,* both which were industriously circu- 
lated and recommended by the monks of Saint Mary’s. 

* [This volume, printed at St. Andrews in 1552, known as Archbishop 
Hamilton’s Catechism, was confounded by Bishop Spottiswood and others 
with the Twapenny Faith. A tract of four pages in 1558, discovered only 
a few years ago, is more likely the one mentioned by Knox. See Knox’s 
Works, vol. i. p. 291 ; The Bannatyne Miscellany , vol. iii. p. 313 ; and 
Knox , vol. vi. p. 676. J 


252 


THE MONASTERY. 


Yet, however indifferent and superficial a theologian, he 
began to suspect that he was now in company with one of 
the gospellers, or heretics, before whose influence the 
ancient system of religion now tottered to the very foun- 
dation. Bred up, as may well be presumed, in a holy hor- 
ror against these formidable sectaries, the youth’s first 
feelings were those of a loyal and devoted church vassal. 
“ Old man,” he said, “ wert thou able to make good with 
thy hand the words that thy tongue hath spoken against 
our Holy Mother Church, we should have tried upon this 
moor which of our creeds hath the better champion.” 

“ Nay,” said the stranger, “ if thou art a true soldier of 
Rome, thou wilt not pause from thy purpose because thou 
hast the odds of years and of strength on thy side. Hearken 
to me, my son. I have showed thee how to make thy 
peace with Heaven, and thou hast rejected my proffer. I 
will now show thee how thou shalt make thy reconciliation 
with the powers of this world. Take this gray head from 
the frail body which supports it, and carry it to the chair 
of proud Abbot Boniface ; and when thou teliest him thou 
hast slain Piercie Shafton, and his ire rises at the deed, lay 
the head of Henry Warden at his foot, and thou shalt have 
praise instead of censure.” 

Halbert Glendinning stepped back in surprise. “ What! 
are you that Henry Warden so famous among the heretics, 
that even Knox’s name is scarce more frequently in their 
mouths ? Art thou he, and darest thou to approach the 
Halidome of Saint Mary’s ? ” 

“ I am Henry Warden, of a surety,” said the old man, 
“ far unworthy to be named in the same breath with Knox, 
but yet willing to venture on whatever dangers my master’s 
service may call me to.” 

“ Hearken to me, then,” said Halbert ; “ to slay thee I 
have no heart — to make thee prisoner, were equally to 
bring thy blood on my head — to leave thee in this wild 
without a guide were little better. I will conduct thee as 
I promised in safety to the castle of Avenel ; but breathe 
not, while we are on the journey, a word against the doc- 
trines of the holy church of which I am an unworthy — but 
though an ignorant, a zealous member. When thou art 
there arrived, beware of thyself — there is a high price upon 
thy head, and Julian Avenel loves the glance of gold bon- 
net-pieces.”* 

* A gold coin of James V., the most beautiful of the Scottish series ; so 
called because the effigy of the sovereignty is represented wearing a bonnet. 


THE MONASTERY. 


253 


“ Yet thou sayest not,” answered the Protestant preacher, 
for such he was, “that for lucre he would sell the blood of 
his guest ? ” 

“Not if thou comest an invited stranger, relying on his 
faith,” said the youth ; “ evil as Julian may be, he dare not 
break the rites of hospitality; for, loose as we on these 
marches may be in all other ties, these are respected 
amongst us even to idolatry, and his nearest relations 
would think it incumbent on them to spill his blood them- 
selves, to efface the disgrace such treason would bring 
upon their name and lineage. But if thou goest self-in- 
vited, and without assurance of safety, I promise thee thy 
risk is great.” 

“ I am in God’s hand,” answered the preacher ; “ it is on 
His errand that I traverse these wilds amidst dangers of 
every kind ; while I am useful for my master’s service, 
they shall not prevail against me, and when, like the bar- 
ren fig-tree, I can no longer produce fruit, what imports it 
when or by whom the axe is laid to the root ? ” 

“Your courage and devotion,” said Glendinning, “are 
worthy of a better cause.” 

“ That,” said Warden, “ cannot be — mine is the very 
best.” 

They continued their journey in silence, Halbert Glen- 
dinning tracing with the utmost accuracy the mazes of the 
dangerous and intricate morasses and hills which divided 
the Halidome from the barony of Avenel. From time to 
time he was obliged to stop, in order to assist his com- 
panion to cross the black intervals of quaking bog, called 
in the Scottish dialect hags, by which the firmer parts of 
the morass were intersected. 

“ Courage, old man,” said Halbert, as he saw his com- 
panion almost exhausted with fatigue, “we shall soon be 
upon hard ground. And yet, soft as this moss is, I have 
seen the merry falconers go through it as light as deer 
when the quarry was upon the flight.” 

“True, my son,” answered Warden, “for so I will still 
call you, though you term me no longer father ; and even 
so doth headlong youth pursue its pleasures, without 
regard to the mire and the peril of the paths through 
which they are hurried.” 

“ I have already told thee,” answered Halbert Glendin- 
ning, sternly, “ that I will hear nothing from thee that 
savors of doctrine.” 

“ Nay, but, my son,” answered Warden, “ thy spiritual 


254 


THE MONASTERY, , 


father himself would surely not dispute the truth of what 
I have now spoken for your edification ! ” 

Glendinning stoutly replied, I know not how that may 
be — but I wot well it is the fashion of your brotherhood to 
bait your hook with fair discourse, and to hold yourselves 
up as angels of light, that you may the better extend the 
kingdom of darkness.” 

“ May God,” replied the preacher, “ pardon those who 
have thus reported of his servants ! I will not offend thee, 
my son, by being instant out of season — thou speakest but 
as thou art taught — yet sure I trust that so goodly a youth 
will be still rescued, like a brand from the burning.” 

While he thus spoke the verge of the morass was attained, 
and their path lay on the declivity. Greensward it was, 
and, viewed from a distance, checkered with its narrow and 
verdant line the dark-brown heath which it traversed, 
though the distinction was not so easily traced when they 
were walking on it.* The old man pursued his journey 
with comparative ease ; and, unwilling again to awaken 
the jealous zeal of his young companion for the Roman 
faith, he discoursed on other matters. The tone of his 
conversation was still grave, moral, and instructive. He 
had travelled much, and knew both the language and man- 
ners of other countries, concerning which Halbert Glen- 
dinning, already anticipating the possibility of being 
obliged toTeave Scotland for the deed he had done, was 
naturally and anxiously desirous of information. By de- 
grees he was more attracted by the charms of the stran- 
ger’s conversation than repelled by the dread of his danger- 
ous character as a heretic, and Halbert had called him 
father more than once ere the turrets of Avenel Castle, 
came in view. 

The situation of this, ancient fortress was remarkable. 
It occupied a small rocky islet in a mountain lake, or tarn, 
as such a piece of water is called in Westmoreland. The 
lake might be about a mile in circumference, surrounded 
by hills of considerable height, which, except where old 
trees and brushwood occupied the ravines that divided 
them from each other, were bare and heathy. The sur- 
prise of the spectator was chiefly excited by finding a piece 
of water situated in that high and mountainous region, 
and the landscape around had features which might rather 

* This sort of path, visible when looked at from a distance, but not to 
be seen when you are upon it, is called on the Border by the significant 
name of a Blind-road. 


THE MONASTERY. 


255 

be termed wild than either romantic or sublime ; yet the 
scene was not without its charms. Under the burning sun 
of summer, the clear azure of the deep unruffled lake re- 
freshed the eye, and impressed the mind with a pleasing 
feeling of deep solitude. In winter, when the snow lay 
on the mountains around, these dazzling masses appeared 
to ascend far beyond their wonted and natural height, while 
the lake, which stretched beneath, and filled their bosom 
with all its frozen waves, lay like the surface of a dark- 
ened and broken mirror around the black and rocky 
islet, and the walls of the gray castle with whi6h it was 
crowned. 

As the castle occupied, either with’ its principal build- 
ings, or with its flanking and outward walls, every project- 
ing point of rock which served as its site, it seemed as 
completely surrounded by water as the nest of a wild swan, 
save where a narrow causeway extended betwixt the islet 
and the shore. But the fortress was larger in appearance 
than in reality ; and of the buildings which it actually 
contained many had become ruinous and uninhabitable. 
In the times of the grandeur of the Avenel family these 
had been occupied by a considerable garrison of followers 
and retainers, but they were now in a great measure de- 
serted ; and Julian Avenel would probably have fixed his 
habitation in a residence better suited to his diminished 
fortunes, had it not been for the great security which the 
situation of the old castle afforded to a man of his pre- 
carious and perilous mode of life. Ifideed, in this respect, 
the spot could scarce have been more happily chosen, for 
it could be rendered almost completely inaccessible at the 
pleasure of the inhabitant. The distance betwixt the near- 
est shore and the islet was not indeed above a hundred 
yards ; but then the causeway which connected them was 
extremely narrow, and completely divided by two cuts, 
one in the mid-way between the islet and shore, and an- 
other close under the outward gate of the castle. These 
formed a formidable, and almost insurmountable, inter- 
ruption to any hostile approach. Each was defended by 
a drawbridge, one of which, being that nearest to the 
castle, was regularly raised at all times during the day, and 
both were lifted at night.* 

* It is in vain to search near Melrose for any such castle as is here de- 
scribed. The lakes at the head of the Yarrow, and those at the rise of the 
water of Ale, present no object of the kind. But in Yetholm Loch (a 
romantic sheet of water, in the dry march, as it is called) there are the re- 


256 


THE MONASTERY. 


The situation of Julian Avenel, engaged in a variety of 
feuds, and a party to almost every dark and mysterious 
transaction which was on foot in that wild and military 
frontier, required all these precautions for his security. 
His own ambiguous and doubtful course of policy had in- 
creased these dangers ; for as he made professions to both 
parties in the state, and occasionally united more actively 
with either the one or the other, as chanced best to serve 
his immediate purpose, he could not be said to have either 
firm allies and protectors, or determined enemies. His 
life was a life of expedients and of peril ; and while, in 
pursuit of his interest, he made all the doubles which he 
thought necessary to attain his object, he often overran his 
prey, and missed that which he might have gained by ob- 
serving a straighter course. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. 

I’ll walk on tiptoe ; arm my eye with caution, 

My heart with courage, and my hand with weapon, 

Like him who ventures on a lion’s den. 

Old Play. 

When, issuing from the gorge of a pass which termi- 
nated upon the lake, the travellers came in sight of the an- 
cient castle of Avenel, the old man looked with earnest 
attention upon the scene before him. The castle was, as 
we have said, in many places ruinous, as was evident, even 
at this distance, by the broken, rugged, and irregular out- 
line of the walls and of the towers. In others it seemed 
more entire, and a pillar of dark smoke, which ascended 
from the chimneys of the donjon, and spread its long 
dusky pennon through the clear ether, indicated that it 
was inhabited. But no corn-fields or enclosed pasture- 
grounds on the side of the lake showed that provident at- 
tention to comfort and subsistence which usually appeared 
near the houses of the greater, and even of the lesser bar- 
ons. There were no cottages with their patches of infield, 
and their crofts and gardens, surrounded by rows of mas- 
sive sycamores ; no church with its simple tower in the 

mains of a fortress called, Lochside Tower, which, like the supposed Cas- 
tle of Avenel, is built upon an island, and connected with the land by a 
causeway. It is much smaller than the Castle of Avenel is described, con- 
sisting only of a single ruinous tower. 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 57 


valley ; no herds of sheep among the hills ; no cattle on 
the lower ground ; nothing which intimated the occasional 
prosecution of the arts of peace and of industry. It was 
plain that the inhabitants, whether few or numerous, must 
be considered as the garrison of the castle, living within 
its defended precincts, and subsisting by means which were 
other than peaceful. 

Probably it was with this conviction that the old man, 
gazing on the castle, muttered to himself, “ Lapis offensionii 
et petra scandali ! " and then, turning to Halbert Glendin- 
ning, he added, “We may say of yonder fort as King James 
did of another fastness in this province, that he who built 
it was a thief in his heart.”* 

“But it was not so,” answered Glendinning ; “yonder 
castle was built by the old lords of Avenel, men as much 
beloved in peace as they were respected in war. They 
were the bulwark of the frontiers against foreigners, and 
the protectors of the natives from domestic oppression. 
The present usurper of their inheritance no more resem- 
bles them, than the night prowling owl resembles a falcon, 
because she builds on the same rock.” 

“This Julian Avenel, then, holds no high place in the 
love and regard of his neighbors ? ” said Warden. 

“ So little,” answered Halbert, “ that besides the jack- 
men and riders with whom he has associated himself, and 
of whom he has many at his disposal, I know of few who 
voluntarily associate with him. He has been more than 
once outlawed both by England and Scotland, his lands 
declared forfeited, and his head set at a price. But in these 
unquiet times, a man so daring as Julian Avenel has ever 
found some friends willing to protect him against the pen- 
alties of the law, on condition of his secret services.” 

“You describe a dangerous man,” replied Warden. 

“You may have experience of that,” replied the youth, 
“ if you deal not the more warily ; — though it may be that 
he also has forsaken the community of the church, and 
gone astray in the path of heresy.” 

“What your blindness terms the path of heresy,” an- 
swered the reformer, “ is indeed the straight and narrow 
way, wherein he who walks turns not aside, whether for 
worldly wealth or for worldly passions. Would to God 
this man were moved by no other and no worse spirit than 

* It was of Lockwood, the hereditary fortress of the Johnstones of An- 
nandale, a strong castle situated in the centre of a quaking bog, that James 
VI. made this remark. 


17 


258 


T HE MONASTERY. 


that which prompts my poor endeavors to extend the king* 
dom of Heaven ! This Baron of Avenel is personally un- 
known to me, is not of our congregation or of our counsel ; 
yet I bear to him charges touching my safety, from those 
whom he must fear if he does not respect them, and upon 
that assurance I will venture upon his hold — I am now 
sufficiently refreshed by these few minutes of repose.” 

“ Take then this advice for your safety,” said Halbert, 
“ and believe that it is founded upon the usage of this 
country and its inhabitants. If you can better shift for 
yourself, go not to the Castle of Avenel — if you do risk 
going thither, obtain from him, if possible, his safe-con- 
duct, and beware that he swears it by the Black Rood — 
and lastly, observe whether he eats with you at the board, 
or pledges you in the cup ; for if he gives you not these 
signs of welcome, his thoughts are evil toward you.” 

“ Alas ! ” said the preacher, “ I have no better earthly 
refuge for the present than these frowning towers, but I 
go thither trusting to aid which is not of this earth — but 
thou, good youth, needest thou trust thyself in this danger- 
ous den ? ” 

“I,” answered Halbert, “am in no danger. I am well 
known to Christie of the Clinthill, the henchman of this 
Julian Avenel ; and, what is yet better protection, I have 
nothing either to provoke malice or to tempt plunder.” 

The tramp of a steed, which clattered along the shingly 
banks of the loch, was now heard behind them ; and, when 
they looked back, a rider was visible, his steel cap and the 
point of his long lance glancing in the setting sun, as he 
rode rapidly toward them. 

Halbert Glendinning soon recognized Christie of the 
Clinthill, and made his companion aware that the hench- 
man of Julian Avenel was approaching. 

“ Ha, youngling ! ” said Christie to Halbert, as he came 
up to them, “ thou hast made good my word at last, and 
come to take service with my noble master, hast thou not ? 
Thou shalt find a good friend and a true ; and ere Saint 
Barnaby come round again, thou shalt know every pass 
betwixt Millburn Plain and Netherby, as if thou hadst 
been born with a jack on thy back, and a lance in thy 
hand. What old carle hast thou with thee ? He is not of 
the brotherhood of Saint Mary’s — at least he has not the 
buist * of these black cattle.” 

* Buist — The brand, or mark set upon sheep or cattle by their owners. 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 59 


ct He is a wayfaring man,” said Halbert, “who has con- 
cerns with Julian of Avenel. For myself, I intend to go 
to Edinburgh to see the Court and the Queen, and when I 
return hither we will talk of your proffer. Meantime, as 
thou hast often invited me to the castle, I crave hospitality 
there to-night for myself and my companion.” 

“ For thyself and welcome, young comrade,” replied 
Christie; “but we harbor no pilgrims, nor aught that 
looks like a pilgrim.” 

“So please you,” said Warden, “I have letters of com- 
mendation to thy master from a sure friend, whom he will 
right willingly oblige in higher matters than in affording 
me a brief protection. And I am no pilgrim, but renounce 
the same, with all its superstitious observances.” 

He offered his letters to the horseman, who shook his 
head. 

“ These,” he said, “ are matters for my master, and it 
will be well if he can read them himself ; for me, sword 
and lance are my book and psalter, and have been since I 
was twelve years old. But I will guide you to the castle, 
and the Baron of Avenel will himself judge of your er- 
rand.” 

By this time the party had reached the causeway, along 
which Christie advanced at a trot, intimating his presence 
to the warders within the castle by a shrill and peculiar 
whistle. At this signal the farther drawbridge was low- 
ered. The horseman passed it and disappeared under the 
gloomy portal which was beyond it. 

Glendinning and his companion, advancing more leis- 
urely along the rugged causeway, stood at length under 
the same gateway, over which frowned, in dark red free- 
stone, the ancient armorial bearings of the house of Ave- 
nel, which represented a female figure shrouded and 
muffled, which occupied the whole field. The cause of 
their assuming so singular a device was uncertain, but the 
figure was generally supposed to represent the mysterious 
being called the White Lady of Avenel.* The sight of 
this mouldering shield awakened in the mind of Halbert 
the strange circumstances which had connected his fate 
with that of Mary Avenel, and with the doings of the 
spiritual being who was attached to her house, and whom 
he saw here represented in stone, as he had before seen 

* There is an ancient English family, I believe, which bears, or did bear, 
a ghost or spirit passant sable in a field argent. This seems to have been 
a device of a punning or canting herald. 


26 o 


THE MONASTERY. 


her effigy upon the seal ring of Walter Avenel, which, 
with other trinkets formerly mentioned, had been saved 
from pillage, and brought to Glendearg, when Mary’s 
mother was driven from her habitation. 

“ You sigh, my son,” said the old man, observing the 
impression made on his youthful companion’s countenance, 
but mistaking the cause ; “ if you fear to enter, we may yet 
return.” 

“ That can ye not,” said Christie of the Clinthill, who 
emerged at that instant from the side-door under the arch- 
way. “ Look yonder, and choose whether you will return 
skimming the water like a wild duck, or winging the air 
like a plover.” 

They looked, and saw that the drawbridge which they 
had just crossed was again raised, and nOw interposed its 
planks between the setting sun and the portal of the castle, 
deepening the gloom of the arch under which they stood. 
Christie laughed and bid them follow him, saying, by way 
of encouragement, in Halbert’s ear, “Answer boldly and 
readily to whatever the Baron asks you. Never stop to 
pick your words, and above all, show no fear of him — the 
devil is not so black as he is painted.” 

As he spoke thus, he introduced them into the large 
stone hall, at the upper end of which blazed a huge fire of 
wood. The long oaken table, which, as usual, occupied 
the midst of the apartment, was covered with rude prepa- 
rations for the evening meal of the Baron and his chief 
domestics, five or six of whom, strong, athletic, savage- 
looking men, paced up and down the low 7 er end of the hall, 
which rang to the jarring clang of their long swords, that 
clashed as they moved, and to the heavy tramp of their 
high-heeled jack-boots. Iron jacks, or coats of buff, formed 
the principal part of their dress, and steel-bonnets, or large 
slouched hats with Spanish plumes drooping backwards, 
were their head attire. • 

The Baron of Avenel was one of those tall, muscular, 
martial figures, which are the favorite subjects of Salvator 
Rosa. He wore a cloak which had been once gayly 
trimmed, but which, by long wear and frequent exposure 
to the weather, was now faded in its colors. Thrown neg- 
ligently about his tall person, it partly hid, and partly 
showed, a short doublet of buff, under which was in some 
places visible that light shirt of mail which was called a 
secret , because worn instead of more ostensible armor to 
protect against private assassination. A leathern belt 


THE MONASTERY. 


261 


sustained a large and heavy sword on one side, and on 
the other that gay poniard which had once called Sir 
Piercie Shafton master, of which the hatchments and gild- 
ings were already much defaced, either by rough usage or 
neglect. 

Notwithstanding the rudeness of his apparel, Julian 
Avenel’s manner and countenance had far more elevation 
than those of the attendants who surrounded him. He 
might be fifty or upwards, for his dark hair was mingled 
with gray, but age had neither tamed the fire of his eye 
nor the enterprise of his disposition. His countenance had 
been handsome, for beauty was an attribute of the family; 
but the lines were roughened by fatigue and exposure to 
the weather, and rendered coarse by the habitual indul- 
gence of violent passions. 

He seemed in deep and moody reflection, and was pacing 
at a distance from his dependents along the upper end of 
the hall, sometimes stopping from time to time .to caress 
and feed a goshawk, which sat upon his wrist, with its 
jesses (/. e. the leathern straps fixed to its legs) wrapt 
around his hand. The bird, which seemed not insensible 
to its master’s attention, answered his caresses by ruffling 
forward its feathers, and pecking playfully at his finger. 
At such intervals the Baron smiled, but instantly resumed 
the darksome air of sullen meditation. He did not even 
deign to look upon an object, which few could have passed 
and repassed so often without bestowing on it a transient 
glance. 

This was a woman of exceeding beauty, rather gayly 
than richly attired, who sat on a low seat close by the 
huge hall chimney. The gold chains round her neck and 
arms, — the gay gown of green which swept the floor, — the 
silver embroidered girdle, with its bunch of keys depend- 
ing in housewifely pride by a silver chain, — the yellow 
silken couvrechef { Scottice, curcJi) which was disposed around 
her head, and partly concealed her dark profusion of hair, 
— above all, the circumstance so delicately touched in the 
old ballad, that “the girdle was too short,” the “gown of 
green all too strait,” for the wearer’s present shape, would 
have intimated the Baron’s lady. But then the lowly seat, 
— the expression of deep melancholy, which was changed 
into a timid smile whenever she saw the least chance of 
catching the eye of Julian Avenel, — the subdued look of 
grief, and the starting tear for which that constrained smile 
was again exchanged when she saw herself entirely disre- 


262 


THE MONASTERY. 


garded — these were not the attributes of a wife, or they 
were those of a dejected and afflicted female, who had 
yielded her love on less than legitimate terms. 

Julian Avenel, as we have said, continued to pace the 
hall without paying any of that mute attention which is 
rendered to almost every female either by affection or 
courtesy. He seemed totally unconscious of her presence, 
or of that of his attendants, and was only roused from his 
own dark reflections by the notice he paid to the falcon, to 
which, however, the lady seemed to attend, as if studying 
to find either an opportunity of speaking to the Baron, or 
of finding something enigmatical in the expressions which 
he used to the bird. All this the strangers had time enough 
to remark ; for no sooner had they entered the apartment 
than their usher, Christie of the Clinthill, after exchang- 
ing a significant glance with the menials or troopers at the 
lower end of the apartment, signed to Halbert Glendin- 
ning and to his companion to stand still near the door, 
while he himself, advancing near the table, placed himself 
in such a situation as to catch the Baron’s observation 
when he should be disposed to look around, but without 
presuming to intrude himself on his master’s notice. In- 
deed, the look of this man, naturally bold, hardy, and 
audacious, seemed totally changed when he was in the 
presence of his master, and resembled the dejected and 
cowering manner of a quarrelsome dog when rebuked by 
his owner, or when he finds himself obliged to deprecate 
the violence of a superior adversary of his own species. 

In spite of the novelty of his own situation, and every 
painful feeling connected with it, Halbert felt his curiosity 
interested in the female, who sat by the chimney unnoticed 
and unregarded. He marked with what keen and trembling 
solicitude she watched the broken words of Julian, and how 
her glance stole toward him, ready to be averted upon the 
slightest chance of his perceiving himself to be watched. 

Meantime he went on with his dalliance with his feathered 
favorite, now giving, now withholding, the morsel with 
which he was about to feed the bird, and so exciting its 
appetite and gratifying it by turns. “What! more yet? — 
thou foul kite, thou wouldst never have done — give thee 
part thou wilt have all — Ay, prune thy feathers, and prink 
thyself gay — much thou wilt make of it now — dost think I 
know thee not ? — dost think I see not that all that ruffling 
and pluming of wing and feathers is not for thy master, 
but to try what thou canst make of him, thou greedy gled ? 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 63 

— well — there — take it then, and rejoice thyself — little boon 
goes far with thee, and with all thy sex— and so it should.” 

He ceased to look on the bird, and again traversed the 
apartment. Then taking another small piece of raw meat 
from the trencher, on which it was placed ready cut for 
his use, he began once again to tempt and tease the bird, 
by offering and withdrawing it, until he awakened its wild 
and bold disposition. “ What ! struggling, fluttering, aim- 
ing at me with beak and single?* So la ! So la ! wouldst 
mount ? wouldst fly ? the jesses are round thy clutches, 
fool — thou canst neither stir nor soar but by my will — • 
Beware thou come to reclaim, wench, else I will wring 
thy head off one of these days — Well, have it then, and 
well fare thou with it. — So ho, Jenkin !” One of the at- 
tendants stepped forward— “ Take the foul gled hence to 
the mew — or, stay ; leave her, but look well to her casting 
and to her bathing — we will see her fly to-morrow. — How 
now, Christie? so soon returned !” 

Christie advanced to his master, and gave an account of 
himself and his journey, in the way in which a police 
officer holds communication with his magistrate, that is, as 
much by signs as by words. 

“Noble sir!” said that worthy satellite, “the Laird of 

,” he named no place, but pointed with his finger in a 

southwestern direction, — “may not ride with you the day 
he purposed, because the Lord Warden has threatened 
that he will ” 

Here another blank intelligibly enough made up by the 
speaker touching his own neck with his left forefinger, and 
leaning his head a little to one side. 

“Cowardly caitiff!” said Julian; “by Heaven! the 
whole world turns sheer naught — it is not worth a brave 
man’s living in — ye may ride a day and night, and never 
see a feather wave or hear a horse prance — the spirit of 
our fathers is dead among us — the very brutes are degen- 
erated — the cattle we bring home at our life’s risk are 
mere carrion — our hawks are riflersj* — our hounds are 
turnspits and trindle-tails — our men are women — and our 
women are ” 

He looked at the female for the first time, and stopped 
short in the midst of what he was about to say, though 
there was something so contemptuous in the glance, that 

* In the kindly language of hawking, as Lady Juliana Berners terms it, 
hawks’ talons are called their singles. 

f So called when they only caught their prey by the feathers. 


264 


THE MONASTERY. 


the blank might have been thus filled up — “ Our women 
are such as she is.” 

He said it not, however, and as if desirous of attracting 
his attention at all risks, and in whatever manner, she rose 
and came forward to him, but with a timorousness ill-dis- 
guised by affected gayety. — “Our women, Julian — what 
would you say of the women ? ” 

“ Nothing,” answered Julian Avenel, “at least nothing 
but that they are kind-hearted wenches like thyself, Kate.” 
The female colored deeply, and returned to her seat. — 
“ And what strangers hast thou brought with thee, Chris- 
tie, that stand yonder like two stone statues?” said the 
Baron. 

“ The taller,” answered Christie, “ is, so please you, a 
young fellow called Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son of 
the old widow at Glendearg,” 

“What brings him here?” said the Baron; “hath he 
any message from Mary Avenel ?” 

“Not as I think,” said Christie ; “the youth is roving 
the country — he was always a wild slip, for I have known 
him since he was the height of my sword.” 

“What qualities hath he ? ” said the Baron. 

“All manner of qualities,” answered his follower — “he 
can strike a buck, track a deer, fly a hawk, halloo to a 
hound — he shoots in the long and cross-bow to a hair’s- 
breadth — wields a lance and sword like myself nearly— 
backs a horse manfully and fairly — I wot not what more 
a man need to do to make him a gallant companion.” 

“And who,” said the Baron, “ is the old miser* who 
stands beside him?” 

“Some cast of a priest, as I fancy — he says he is charged 
with letters to you.” 

“ Bid them come forward,” said the Baron ; and no 
sooner had they approached him more nearly, than, struck 
by the fine form and strength displayed by Halbert Glen- 
dinning, he addressed him thus : “I am told, young Swank- 
ie, that you are roaming the world to seek your fortune 
— if you will serve Julian Avenel, you may find it without 
going farther.” 

“So please you,” answered Glendinning, “something 
has chanced to me that makes it better I should leave this 
land, and I am bound for Edinburgh.” 

“ What ! — thou hast stricken some of the king’s deer, I 

* Miser, used in the sense in which it often occurs in Spenser, and which 
is indeed its literal import, — “wretched old man.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


265 


warrant — or lightened the meadows of Saint Mary’s of 
some of their beeves — or thou hast taken a moonlight leap 
over the Border ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Halbert, “ my case is entirely different.” 

“ Then I warrant thee,” said the Baron, “ thou hast 

stabbed some brother churl in a fray about a wench 

thou art a likely lad to wrangle in such a cause.” 

Ineffably disgusted at his tone and manner, Halbert 
Glendinning remained silent, while the thought darted 
across his mind, what would Julian Avenel have said, had 
he known the quarrel, of which he spoke so lightly, had 
arisen on account of his own brother’s daughter ! “ But 

be thy cause of flight what it will,” said Julian, in continu- 
ation, “dost thou think the law or its emissaries can fol- 
low thee into this island, or arrest thee under the standard 
of Avenel ! — Look at the depth of the lake, the strength of 
the walls, the length of the causeway — look at my men, 
and think if they are likely to see a comrade injured, or if 
I, their master, am a man to desert a faithful follower, in 
good or evil. I tell thee it shall be an eternal day of truce 
betwixt thee and justice, as they call it, from the instant 
thou hast put my colors into thy cap — thou shalt ride by 
the Warden’s nose as thou wouldst pass an old market- 
woman, and ne’er a cur which follows him shall dare to 
bay at thee ! ” 

“ I thank you for your offers, noble sir,” replied Halbert, 
“but I must answer in brief, that I cannot profit by them 
— my fortunes lead me elsewhere.” 

“ Thou art a self-willed fool for thy pains,” said Julian, 
turning from him ; and signing Christie to approach, he 
whispered in his ear, “There is promise in that young fel- 
low’s looks, Christie, and we want men of limbs and sinews 
so compacted — those thou hast brought to me of late are 
the mere refuse of mankind, wretches scarce worth the ar- 
row that ends them ; this youngster is limbed like Saint 
George. Ply him with wine and wassail — let the wenches 
weave their meshes about him like spiders — thou under- 
standest ? ” Christie gave a sagacious nod of intelligence, 
and fell back to a respectful distance from his master. — 
“ And thou, old man,” said the Baron, turning to the elder 
traveller, “ hast thou been roaming the world after fortune 
too ? — it seems not she has fallen into thy way.” 

“ So please you,” replied Warden, “I were perhaps more 
to be pitied than I am now, had I indeed met with that fort- 
une, which, like others, I have sought in my greener days.” 


266 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Nay, understand me, friend,” said the Baron ; “if thou 
art satisfied with thy buckram gown and long staff, I also 
am well content thou shouldst be as poor and contempti- 
ble as is good for the health of thy body and soul — All I 
care to know of thee is, the cause which hath brought thee 
to my castle, where few crows of thy kind care to settle. 
Thou art, I warrant thee, some ejected monk of a sup- 
pressed convent, paying in his old days the price of the 
luxurious idleness in which he spent his youth. Ay, or 
it may be some pilgrim with a budget of lies from Saint 
James of Compostella, or Our Lady of Loretto ; or thou 
mayest be some pardoner with his budget of relics from 
Rome, forgiving sins at a penny a-dozen, and one to the 
tale. Ay, I guess why I find thee in this boy’s company, 
and doubtless thou wouldst have such a strapping lad as 
he to carry thy wallet, and relieve, thy lazy shoulders ; 
but by the mass, I will cross thy cunning. I make my 
vow to sun and moon, I will not see a proper lad so mis- 
leard as to run the country with an old knave like Simmie 
and his brother.* Away with thee ! ” he added, rising in 
wrath, and speaking so fast as to give no opportunity of 
answer, being probably determined to terrify the elder 
guest into an abrupt flight — “ Away with thee, with thy 
clouted coat, scrip, and scallop-shell, or, by the name of 
Avenel, I will have them loose the hounds on thee.” 

Warden waited with the greatest patience until Julian 
Avenel, astonished that the threats and violence of his 
language made no impression on him, paused in a sort of 
wonder, and said in a less imperious tone, “ Why the fiend 
dost thou not answer me ? ” 

“When you have done speaking,” said Warden, in the 
same composed manner, “ it will be full time to reply.” 

“ Say on, man, in the devil’s name — but take heed — beg 
not here — were it but for the rinds of cheese, the refuse of 
the rats, or a morsel that my dogs would turn from — nei- 
ther a grain of meal, nor the nineteenth part of a gray 
groat, will I give to any feigned limmar of thy coat.” 

“It may be,” answered Warden, “that you would have 
less quarrel with my coat if you knew what it covers. I 
am neither a friar nor mendicant, and would be right glad 
to hear thy testimony against these foul deceivers of God’s 

* Two qucestioTicirii , or begging friars, whose accoutrements and roguery 
make the subject of an old Scottish satirical poem. [The old poem of 
Symmie and his brather , preserved in Bannatyne’s Manuscript, is included 
in the Select Remains of Ancient Popular Poetry , 1822.J 


THE MONASTERY . 267 

church, and usurpers of his rights over the Christian flock, 
were it given in Christian charity.” 

“And who or what art thou, then,” said Avenel, “that 
thou comest to this Border land, and art neither monk, nor 
soldier, nor broken man ? ” 

“ I am an humble teacher of the Holy Word,” answered 
Warden. “This letter from a most noble person will 
speak why I am here at the present time.” 

He delivered the letter to the Baron, who regarded the 
seal with some surprise, and then looked on the letter it- 
self, which seemed to excite still more. He then fixed his 
eyes on the stranger, and said, in a menacing tone, “I think 
thou darest not betray me or deceive me?” 

“ I am not the man to attempt either,” was the concise 

reply. 

Julian Avenel carried the letter to the window, where he 
perused, or at least attempted to peruse it more than once, 
often looking from the paper and gazing on the stranger 
who had delivered it, as if he meant to read the purport of 
the missive in the face of the messenger. Julian at length 
called to the female — “ Catherine, bestir thee, and fetch me 
presently that letter which I bade thee keep ready at hand 
in thy casket, having no sure lockfast place of my own.” 

Catherine went, with the readiness of one willing to be 
employed ; and as she walked, the situation which requires 
a wider gown and a longer girdle, and in which woman 
claims from man a double portion of the most anxious 
care, was still more visible than before. She soon returned 
with the paper, and was rewarded with a cold — “ I thank 
thee, wench : thou art a careful secretary.” 

This second paper he also perused and reperused more 
than once, and still, as he read it, bent from time to time 
a wary and observant eye upon Henry Warden. This ex- 
amination and re-examination, though both the man and 
the place were dangerous, the preacher endured with the 
most composed and steady countenance, seeming, under 
the eagle, or rather the vulture eye of the baron, as under 
the gaze of an ordinary and peaceful peasant. At length 
Julian Avenel folded both papers, and having put them 
into the pocket of his cloak, cleared his brow, and, coming 
forward, addressed his female companion. “ Catherine,” 
said he, “I have done this good man injustice, when I mis- 
took him for one of the drones of Rome. He is a preacher, 
Catherine — a preacher of the — the new doctrine of the 
Lords of the Congregation.” 


265 


THE MONASTERY. 


“The doctrine of the blessed Scriptures,” said the 
preacher, “purified from the devices of men.” 

“ Sayest thou ?” said Julian Avenel — “Well, thou may- 
est call it what thou lists ; but to me it is recommended, 
because it flings off all those sottish dreams about saints 
and angels and devils, and unhorses lazy monks that have 
ridden us so long, and spur-galled us so hard. No more 
masses and corpse-gifts — no more tithes and offerings to 
make men poor — no more prayers or psalms to make men 
cowards — no more christenings and penances, and confes- 
sions and marriages.” 

“ So please you,” said Henry Warden, “ it is against the 
corruptions, not against the fundamental doctrines of the 
church, which we desire to renovate, and not to abolish.” 

“ Prithee, peace, man,” said the Baron ; “we of the laity 
care not what you set up, so you pull merrily down what 
stands in our way. Specially it suits well with us of the 
Southland fells ; for it is our profession to turn the world 
upside down, and we live ever the blithest life when the 
downer side is uppermost.” 

Warden would have replied ; but the Baron allowed 
him not time ; striking the table with the hilt of his dag- 
ger, and crying out, — “Ha! you loitering knaves, bring 
our supper-meal quickly. See you not this holy man is 
exhausted for lack of food ! heard ye ever of priest or 
preacher that devoured not his five meals a-day ? ” 

The attendants bustled to and fro, and speedily brought 
in several large smoking platters filled with huge pieces of 
beef, boiled and roasted, but without any variety whatso- 
ever ; without vegetables, and almost without bread, though 
there were at the upper end a few oat-cakes in a basket. 
Julian Avenel made a sort of apology to Warden. 

“You have been commended to our care, Sir Preacher, 
since that is your style, by a person whom we highly 
honor.” 

“I am assured,” said Warden, “that the most noble 
Lord ” 

“Prithee, peace, man,” said Avenel; “what need of 
naming names, so we understand each other ? I meant but 
to speak in reference to your safety and comfort, of which 
he desires us to be chary. Now, for your safety, look at 
my walls and water. But touching your comfort, we have 
no corn of our own, and the meal-girnels of the south are 
less easily transported than their beeves, seeing they have 
no legs to walk upon. But what though ? a stoup of wine 


THE MONAS? ERK 


269 


thou shalt have, and of the best — thou shalt sit betwixt 
Catherine and me at the board-end. — And Christie, do 
thou look to the young springald, and call to the cellarer 
for a flagon of the best.” 

The Baron took his wonted place at the upper end of the 
board ; his Catherine sat down, and courteously pointed 
to a seat betwixt them for their reverend guest. But not- 
withstanding the influence both of hunger and fatigue, 
Henry Warden retained his standing posture. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly 

And finds too late that men betray 

* * * * * 

Vicar of Wakefield. 

Julian Avenel saw with surprise the demeanor of the 
reverend stranger. “Beshrew me,” he said, “ these new- 
fashioned religioners have fast-days, I warrant me — the 
old ones used to confer these blessings chiefly on the laity.” 

“We acknowledge no such rule,” said the preacher — • 
“We hold that our faith consists not in using or abstain- 
ing from special meats on special days ; and in fasting we 
rend our hearts, and not our garments.” 

“The better — the better for yourselves, and the worse 
for Tom Tailor,” said the Baron ; “but come, sit down, or, 
if thou needs must e’en give us a cast of thy office, mutter 
thy charm.” 

“Sir Baron,” said the preacher, “ I am in a strange land, 
where neither mine office nor my doctrine are known, and 
where, it would seem, both are greatly misunderstood. It 
is my duty so to bear me, that in my person, however un- 
worthy, my Master’s dignity may be respected, and that 
sin may take not confidence from relaxation of the bonds 
of discipline.” 

“ Ho la ! halt there,” said the Baron ; “ thou wert sent 
hither for thy safety, but not, I think, to preach to me, or 
control me. What is it thou wouldst have, Sir Preacher ? 
Remember thou speakest to one somewhat short of pa- 
tience, who loves a short health and a long draught.” 

“ In a word, then,” said Henry Warden, “ that lady” • 

“ How ? ” said the Baron, starting — “what of her ? — what 
hast thou to say of that dame ? ” 


270 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Is she thy house-dame ? ” said the preacher, after a mo 
merit’s pause, in which he seemed to seek for the best 
mode of expressing what he had to say — “ Is she, in brief, 
thy wife ? ” 

The unfortunate young woman pressed both her hands 
on her face, as if to hide it, but the deep blush which 
crimsoned her brow and neck, showed that her cheeks 
were also glowing ; and the bursting tears, which found 
their w r ay betwixt her slender fingers, bore witness to her 
sorrow, as well as to her shame. 

“Now, by my father’s ashes !” said the Baron, rising 
and spurning from him his footstool with such violence, 
that it hit the wall on the opposite side of the apartment — 
then instantly constraining himself, he muttered, “What 
need to run myself into trouble for a fool’s word ?” — then 
resuming his seat, he answered coldly and scornfully — 
“ No, Sir Priest or Sir Preacher, Catherine is not my wife 
— Cease thy whimpering, thou foolish wench — she is not 
my wife — but she is handfasted with me, and that makes 
her as honest a woman.” 

“ Handfasted ?” repeated Warden. 

“Knowest thou not that rite, holy man ?” said Avenel, 
in the same tone of derision ; “ then I will tell thee. We 
Border-men are more wary than your inland clowns of 
Fife and Lothian — no jump in the dark for us — no clinch- 
ing the fetters around our wrists till we know how they 
will wear with us — we take our wives, like our horses, upon 
trial. When we are handfasted, as we term it, we are 
man and wife for a year and day ; that space gone by, each 
may choose another mate, or, at their pleasure, may call 
the priest to marry them for life — and this we call hand- 
fasting.” * 

“Then,” said the preacher, “I tell thee, noble Baron, in 
brotherly love to thy soul, it is a custom licentious, gross, 
and corrupted, and, if persisted in, dangerous, yea, dam- 
nable. It binds thee to the frailer being while she is the 
object of desire — it relieves thee when she is most the sub- 
ject of pity — it gives all to brutal sense, and nothing to 
generous and gentle affection. I say to thee, that he who 
can meditate the breach of such an engagement, abandon- 

* This custom of handfasting actually prevailed in the upland days. It 
arose parti) from the want of priests. While the convents subsisted, monks 
were detached on regular circuits through the wilder districts, to marry 
those who had lived in this species of connection. A practice of the same 
kind existed in the Isle of Portland. 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 7 t 


ing the deluded woman and the helpless offspring, is worse 
than the birds of prey ; for of them the males remain with 
their mates until the nestlings can take wing. Above all, 
I say it is contrary to the pure Christian doctrine, which 
assigns woman to man as the partner of his labor, the 
soother of his evil, his helpmate in peril, his friend in af- 
fliction ; not as the toy of his looser hours, or as a flower, 
which, once cropped, he may throw aside at pleasure.” 

“Now, by the Saints, a most virtuous homily ! ” said the 
Baron; “quaintly conceived and curiously pronounced, 
and to a well-chosen congregation. Hark ye, Sir Gospel- 
ler ! trow ye to have a fool in hand ? Know I not that 
your sect rose by bluff Harry Tudor, merely because ye 
aided him to change his Kate ! and wherefore should I not 
use the same Christian liberty with mine ? Tush, man ! 
bless the good food, and meddle not with what concerns 
thee not — thou hast no gull in Julian Avenel.” 

“ He hath gulled and cheated himself,” said the preacher, 
“ should he even incline to do that poor sharer of his do- 
mestic cares the imperfect justice that remains to him. 
Can he now raise her to the rank of a pure and uncontanj- 
inated matron ? — Can he deprive his child of the misery of 
owing birth to a mother who has erred ? He can indeed 
give them both the rank, the state of married wife and of 
lawful son ; but, in public opinion, their names will be 
smirched and sullied with a stain which his tardy efforts 
cannot entirely efface. Yet render it to them, Baron of 
Avenel, render to them this late and imperfect justice. 
Bid me bind you together forever, and celebrate the day 
of your bridal, not with feasting or wassail, but with sor- 
row for past sin, and the resolution to commence a better 
life. Happy then will have the chance been that has 
drawn me to this castle, though I come driven by calamity, 
and unknowing where my course is bound, like a leaf 
travelling on the north wind.” 

The plain, and even coarse features, of the zealous 
speaker, were warmed at once and ennobled by the dignity 
of his enthusiasm ; and the wild Baron, lawless as he was, 
and accustomed to spurn at the control whether of religious 
or moral law, felt, for the first time perhaps in his life, that 
he was under subjection to a mind superior to his own. 
He sat mute and suspended in his deliberations, hesitating 
betwixt anger and shame, yet borne down by the weight 
of the just rebuke thus boldly fulminated against him. 

The unfortunate young woman, conceiving hopes from 


272 


THE MONASTERY. 


her tyrant’s silence and apparent indecision, forgot both het 
fear and shame in her timid expectation that Avenel would 
relent ; and fixing upon him her anxious and beseeching 
eyes, gradually drew near and nearer to his seat, till at 
length, laying a trembling hand on his cloak, she ventured 
to utter, “ O noble Julian, listen to t lie good man ! ” 

The speech and the motion were ill-timed, and wrought 
on that proud and wayward spirit the reverse of her wishes. 

The fierce Baron started up in a fury, exclaiming, 
“What ! thou foolish callet, art thou confederate with this 
strolling vagabond, whom thou hast seen beard me in my 
own hall ! Hence with thee, and think that I am proof both 
to male and female hypocrisy ?” 

The poor girl started back, astounded at his voice of 
thunder and looks of fury, and, turning pale as death, en- 
deavored to obey his orders, and tottered toward the door. 
Her limbs failed in the attempt, and she fell on the stone 
floor in a manner which her situation might have rendered 
fatal — The blood gushed from her face. — Halbert Glendin- 
ning brooked not a sight so brutal, but uttering a deep im- 
precation, started from his seat, and laid his hand on his 
sword, under the strong impulse of passing it through the 
body of the cruel and hard-hearted ruffian. But Christie 
of the Clinthill, guessing his intention, threw his arms 
around him, and prevented him from stirring to execute 
his purpose. 

The impulse to such an act of violence was indeed but 
momentary, as it instantly appeared that Avenel himself, 
shocked at the effects of his violence, was lifting up and 
endeavoring to soothe in his own way the terrified Cathe- 
rine. 

“ Peace,” he said, “ prithee, peace, thou silly minion — . 
why, Kate, though I listen not to this tramping preacher, 
I said not what might happen and thou dost bear me a 
stout boy. There — there — dry thy tears — call thy women 
— So ho ! — where be these queans ? — Christie — Rowley — - 
Hutcheon — drag them hither by the hair of the head ! ” 

A half-dozen of startled wild-looking females rushfed 
into the room, and bore out her who might be either 
termed their mistress or their companion. She showed 
little sign of life, except by groaning faintly and keeping 
her hand on her side. 

No sooner had this luckless female been conveyed from 
the apartment, than the Baron, advancing to the table, 
filled and drank a deep goblet of wine ; then putting an 


THE MONASTERY. 


m 


obvious restraint on his passions, turned to the preacher, 
who stood horror-struck at the scene he had witnessed, and 
said, “You have borne too hard on us, Sir Preacher — but 
coming with the commendations which you have brought 
me, I doubt not but your meaning was good. But we are 
a wilder folk than you inland men of Fife and Lothian. 
Be advised, therefore, by me — Spur not an unbroken 
horse — put not your ploughshare too deep into new land — • 
Preach to us spiritual liberty, and we will hearken to you. 

But we will give no way to spiritual bondage. — Sit, 
therefore, down, and pledge me in old sack, and we will 
talk over other matters.” 

“ It is from spiritual bondage,” said the preacher, in the 
same tone of admonitory reproof, “ that I came to deliver 
you — it is from a bondage more fearful than that of the 
heaviest earthly gyves — it is from your own evil passions.” 

“ Sit down,” said Avenel, fiercely ; “ sit down while the 
play is good — else by my father’s crest and my mother’s 
honor ! ” 

“ Now,” whispered Christie of the Clinthill to Halbert, 
“ if he refuse to sit down, I would not give a gray groat for 
his head.” 

“ Lord Baron,” said Warden, “ thou hast placed me in 
extremity. But if the question be, whether I am to hide 
the light which I am commanded to show forth, or to lose 
the light of this world, my choice is made. I say to thee, 
like the Holy Baptist to Herod, it is not lawful for thee to 
have this woman ; and I say it though bonds and death be 
the consequence, counting my life as nothing in com- 
parison of the ministry to which I am called.” 

Julian Avenel, enraged at the firmness of this reply, 
flung from his right hand the cup in which he was about 
to drink to his guest, and from the other cast off the hawk, 
which flew wildly through the apartment. His first motion 
was to lay hand upon his dagger. But, changing his reso- 
lution, he exclaimed, “ To the dungeon with this insolent 
stroller ! — I will hear no man speak a word for him. — 
Look to the falcon, Christie, thou fool — an she escape, I 
will despatch you after her every man — Away with that 
hypocritical dreamer — drag him hence if he resist ! ” 

He was obeyed in both points. Christie of the Clinthill 
arrested the hawk’s flight, by putting his foot on her jess- 
es, and so holding her fast, while Henry Warden was led 
off, without having shown the slightest symptoms of 
terror, by two of the Baron’s satellites. Julian Avenel 
18 


274 


THE MONASTERY. 


walked the apartment for a short time in sullen silence, 
and despatching one of his attendants with a whispered 
message, which probably related to the health of the un- 
fortunate Catherine, he said aloud, “These rash and 
meddling priests — By Heaven ! they make us worse than 
we would be without them/' * 

The answer which he presently received seemed some- 
what to pacify his angry mood, and he took his place at 
the board, commanding his retinue to do the like. All sat 
down in silence, and began the repast. 

During the meal Christie in vain attempted to engage 
his youthful companion in carousal, or, at least, in conver- 
sation. Halbert Glendinning pleaded fatigue, and ex- 
pressed himself unwilling to take any liquor stronger than 
the heather ale, which was at that time frequently used at 
meals. Thus every effort at jovialty died away, until the 
Baron, striking his hand against the table, as if impatient 
of the long unbroken silence, cried out aloud, “ What ho ! 
my masters — are ye Border-riders, and sit as mute over your 
meal as a mess of monks and friars ? — Some one sing, if no 
one list to speak. Meat eaten without either mirth or 
music is ill of digestion. — Louis,” he added, speaking to 
one of the youngest of his followers, “ thou art ready 
enough to sing when no one bids thee.” 

The young man looked first at his master, then up to 
the arched roof of the hall, then drank off the horn of ale, 
or wine, which stood beside him, and with a rough, yet 
not unmelodious voice, sung the following ditty to the an- 
cient air of “ Blue Bonnets over the Border.” 

i. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order ? 

. March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread, 

Flutters above your head, 

Many a crest that is famous in story j 
Mount and make ready then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 

Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory ! 

II. 

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 

* Note H. Julian Avenel. 


THE MONASTERY. 


275 


Trumpets are sounding, 

War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms then, and march in good order ; 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border ! * 


The song, rude as it was, had in it that warlike character 
which at any other time would have roused JTalbert’s 
spirit ; but at present the charm of minstrelsy had no 
effect upon him. He made it his request to Christie to 
suffer him to retire to rest, a request with which that worthy 
person, seeing no chance of making a favorable impression 
on his intended proselyte in his present humor, was at 
length pleased to comply. But no Sergeant Kite, who 
ever practised the profession of recruiting, was more at- 
tentive that his object should not escape him, than was 
Christie of the Clinthill. He indeed conducted Halbert 
Glendinning to a small apartment overlooking the lake, 
which was accommodated w T ith a truckle bed. But before 
quitting him, Christie took special care to give a look to 
the bars which crossed the outside of the window, and 
when he left the apartment, he failed not to give the key 
a double turn ; circumstances which convinced young 
Glendinning that there was no intention of suffering 
him to depart from the Castle of Avenel at his own 
time and pleasure. He judged it, however, most pru- 
dent to let these alarming symptoms pass without obser- 
vation. 

No sooner did he find himself in undisturbed solitude, 
than he ran rapidly over the events of the day in his recol- 
lection, and to his surprise found that his own precarious 
fate, and even the death of Piercie Shafton, made less im- 
pression on him than the singularly bold and determined 
conduct of his companion, Henry Warden. Providence, 
which suits its instruments to the end they are to achieve, 
had avrakened in the cause of Reformation in Scotland, a 
body of preachers of more energy than refinement, bold in 
spirit, and strong in faith, contemners of whatever stood 
betwixt them and their principal object, and seeking the 
advancement of the great cause in which they labored by 
the roughest road, provided it were the shortest. The 
soft breeze may wave the willow, but it requires the voice 

* [A spirited ballad in the same strain, called General Lesly's March to 
Longmarston Moor , is printed in Allan Ramsay’s Tea-Table Miscellany , 
and otbsr collections.] 


276 


THE MONASTERY. 


of the tempest to agitate the boughs of the oak ; and, ao 
cordingly, to milder hearers, and in a less rude age, theii 
manners would have been ill adapted, but they were sin- 
gularly successful in their mission to the rude people to 
whom it was addressed. 

Owing to these reasons, Halbert Glendinning, who had 
resisted and repelled the arguments of the preacher, was 
forcibly struck by the firmness of his demeanor in the dis- 
pute with Julian Avenel. It might be discourteous, and 
most certainly it was incautious, to choose such a place 
and such an audience, for upbraiding with his trangressions 
a baron, whom both manners and situation placed in full 
possession of independent power. But the conduct of the 
preacher was uncompromising, firm, manly, and obviously 
grounded upon the deepest conviction which duty and 
principle could afford ; and Glendinning, who had viewed 
the conduct of Avenel with the deepest abhorrence, was 
proportionally interested in the brave old man, who had 
ventured life rather than withhold the censure due to 
guilt. This pitch of virtue seemed to him to be in religion 
what was demanded by chivalry of her votaries in war ; an 
absolute surrender of all selfish feelings, and a combina- 
tion of every energy proper to the human mind, to dis- 
charge the task which duty demanded. 

Halbert was at the period when youth is most open to 
generous emotions, and knows best how to' appreciate 
them in others, and he felt, although he hardly knew why, 
that, whether catholic or heretic, the safety of this man 
deeply interested him. Curiosity mingled with the feel- 
ing, and led him to wonder what the nature of those doc- 
trines could be, which stole their votary so completely 
from himself, and devoted him to chains or to death as 
their sworn champion. He had indeed been told of saints 
and martyrs of former days, who had braved for their relig- 
ious faith the extremity of death and torture. But their 
spirit of enthusiastic devotion had long slept in the ease 
and indolent habits of their successors, and their advent- 
ures, like those of . knights-errant, were rather read for 
amusement than for edification. A new impulse had been 
necessary to rekindle the energies of religious zeal, and 
that impulse was now operating in favor of a purer relig- 
ion, with one of whose steadiest votaries the youth had 
now met for the first time. 

The sense that he himself was a prisoner, under the 
power of this savage chieftain, by no means diminished 


THE MONASTERY. 


277 


Halbert’s interest in the fate of his fellow-sufferer, while 
he determined at the same time so far to emulate his for- 
titude, that neither threats nor suffering should compel 
him to enter into the service of such a master. The possi- 
bility of escape next occurred to him, and though with 
little hope of effecting it in that way, Glendenning pro- 
ceeded to examine more particularly the window of the 
apartment. The apartment was situated in the first story 
of the Gastle ; and was not so far from the rock on which 
it was founded, but that an active and bold man might, 
with little assistance, descend to a shelf of the rock which 
was immediately below the window and from thence either 
leap or drop himself down into the lake which lay before 
his eye, clear and blue in the placid light of a full sum- 
mer’s moon. — “Were I once placed on that ledge,” thought 
Glendinning, “Julian Avenel and Christie had seen the 
last of me.” The size of the window favored such an 
attempt, but the stanchions or iron bars seemed to form 
an insurmountable obstacle. 

While Halbert Glendinning gazed from the window with 
that eagerness of hope which was prompted by the en- 
ergy of his character and his determination not to yield to 
circumstances, his ear caught some sounds from below, and 
listening with more attention, he could distinguish the voice 
of the preacher engaged in his solitary devotions. To open 
a correspondence with him became immediately his object, 
and failing to do so by less marked sounds, he at length 
ventured to speak, and was answered from beneath — “ Is 
it thou, my son ? ” The voice of the prisoner now sounded 
more distinctly than when it was first heard, for Warden 
had approached the small aperture, which, serving his 
prison for a window, opened just betwixt the wall and the 
rock, and admitted a scanty portion of light through a wall 
of immense thickness. This soupirail being placed exactly 
under Halbert’s window, the contiguity permitted the pris- 
oners to converse in a low tone, when Halbert declared his 
intention to escape, and the possibility he saw of achieving 
his purpose, but for the iron stanchions of the window — 
“ Prove thy strength, my son, in the name of God ! ” said 
the preacher. Halbert obeyed him more in despair than 
hope, but to his great astonishment, and somewhat to his 
terror, the bar parted asunder near the bottom, and the 
longer part being easily bent outward, and not secured 
with lead in the upper socket, dropt out into Halbert’s 
hand. He immediately whispered, but as energetically as 


278 


THE MONASTERY. 


a whisper could be expressed — “ By Heaven, the bar has 
given way in my hand ! ” 

“Thank Heaven, my son, instead of swearing by it,’ f 
answered Warden from his dungeon. 

With little effort Halbert Glendinning forced himself 
through the opening thus wonderfully effected, and using 
his leathern sword-belt as a rope to assist him, let himself 
safely drop on the shelf of rock upon which the preacher’s 
window opened. But through this no passage could be 
effected, being scarce larger than a loophole for musketry, 
and apparently constructed for that purpose. 

“ Are there no means by which I can assist your escape, 
my father ? ” said Halbert. 

“There are none, my son,” answered the preacher; 
“ but if thou wilt insure my safety, that may be in thy 
power.” 

“ I will labor earnestly for it,” said the youth. 

“Take then a letter which I will presently write, for I 
have the means of light and writing materials in my scrip 
— Hasten toward Edinburgh, and on the way thou wilt 
meet a body of horse marching southward — Give this to 
their leader, and acquaint him of the state in which thou 
hast left me. It may hap that thy doing so will advantage 
thyself.” 

In a minute or two the light of a taper gleamed through 
the shot-hole, and very shortly after, the preacher, with 
the assistance of his staff, pushed a billet to Glendinning 
through the window. 

“God bless thee, my son,” said the old man, “and com- 
plete the marvellous work which he has begun.” 

“ Amen ! ” answered Halbert, with solemnity, and pro- 
ceeded on his enterprise. 

He hesitated a moment whether he should attempt to 
descend to the edge of the water ; but the steepness of the 
rock, and darkness of the night, rendered the enterprise 
too dangerous. He clasped his hands above his head and 
boldly sprung from the precipice, shooting himself forward 
into the air as far as he could for fear of sunken rocks, 
and alighted on the lake, head foremost, with such force 
as sunk him for a minute below the surface. But strong, 
long-breathed, and accustomed to such exercise, Halbert, 
even though encumbered with his sword, dived and rose 
like a sea-fowl, and swam across the lake in the northern 
direction. When he landed and looked back on the cas- 
tle, he could observe that the alarm had been given, foi 


THE MONASTERY. 


279 


lights glanced from window to window, and he heard the 
drawbridge lowered, and the tread of horses’ feet upon 
the causeway. But, little alarmed for the consequences 
of a pursuit during the darkness, he wrung the water 
from his dress, and, plunging into the moors, directed 
his course to the northeast by the assistance of the polar 
star. 


CHAPTER TWENTY SIXTH. 


Why, what an intricate impeach is this ! 

I think you all have drank of Circe’s, cup. 

If here you housed him, here he would have been ; 

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly. 

Comedy of Errors. 

The course of our story, leaving for the present Halbert 
Glendinning to the guidance of his courage and his fortune, 
returns to the Tower of Glendearg, where matters in 
the meanwhile fell out with which it is most fitting that 
the reader should be acquainted. 

The meal was prepared at noontide with all the care 
which Elspeth and Tibb, assisted by the various accommo- 
dations which had been supplied from the Monastery, 
could bestow on it. Their dialogue ran on as usual in the 
intervals of their labor, partly as between mistress and 
servant, partly as maintained by gossips of nearly equal 
quality. 

“Look to the minced meat, Tibb,” said Elspeth; “and 
turn the broach even, thou good-for-nothing Simmie — thy 
wits are harrying birds’ nests, child. — Weel, Tibb, this is a 
fasheous job, this Sir Piercie lying leaguer with us up here, 
and wha kens for how lang ? ” 

“A fasheous job, indeed,” answered her faithful attend- 
ant, “and little good did the name ever bring to fair Scot- 
land. Ye may have your hands fuller of them than they 
are yet. Mony a sair heart have the Piercies given 
to Scots wife and bairns with their pricking on the Bor- 
ders. There was Hotspur and many more of that bloody 
kindred, have sat in our skirts since Malcolm’s time, as 
Martin says ! ” 

“ Martin should keep a weel-scrapit tongue in his head,” 
said Elspeth, “and not slander the kin of any body that 
quarters at Glendearg ; forby, that Sir Piercie Shafton is 


28 o 


THE MONASTERY. 


much respected with the holy fathers of the community, 
and they will make up to us onyfasherie that we may have 
with him, either by good word or good deed, I’se warrant 
them. He is a considerate lord, the Lord Abbot.” 

“And weel he likes a saft seat to his hinder end,” said 
Tibb ; “ I have seen a belted baron sit on a bare bench, 
and find nae fault. But an ye are pleased, mistress, I am 
pleased.” 

“Now, in good time, here comes Mysie of the Mill. — 
And whare hae ye been, lass, for a’s gane wrang without 
you ? ” said Elspeth. 

“ I just gaed a blink up the burn,” said Mysie, “for the 
young lady has been down on her bed, and is no just that 
weel — So I gaed a gliff up the burn.” 

“To see the young lads come hame frae the sport, I will 
warrant you,” said Elspeth. “Ay, ay, Tibb, that’s the way 
the young folk guide us, Tibbie — leave us to do the wark, 
and out to the play themsells.” 

“ Ne’er a bit of that, mistress,” said the Maid of the 
Mill, stripping her round pretty arms, and looking active- 
ly and good-humoredly round for some duty that she 
could discharge, “ but just — I thought ye might like to ken 
if they were coming back, just to get the dinner forward.” 

“And saw ye aught of them then? ” demanded Elspeth. 

“ Not the least tokening,” said Mysie, “though I got to 
the head of a knowe, and though the English knight’s 
beautiful white feather could have been seen over all the 
bushes in the Shaw.” 

“ The knight’s white feather ! ” said Dame Glendinning ; 
“ye are a silly hempie — my Halbert’s high head will be 
seen farther than his feather, let it be as white as it like, I 
trow.” 

Mysie made no answer, but began to knead dough for 
wastel-cake with all despatch, observing that Sir Piercie 
had partaken of that dainty, and commended it upon the 
preceding day. And presently, in order to place on the 
fire the girdle, or iron plate on which these cates were to be 
baked, she displaced a s-tew-pan in which some of Tibb’s 
delicacies were submitted to the action of the kitchen fire. 
Tibb muttered betwixt her teeth — “And it is the broth for 
my sick bairn, that maun make room for the dainty South- 
ron’s wastel-bread. It was a blithe time in Wight Wal- 
lace’s day, or good King Robert’s, when the pock-pud- 
dings gat naething here but hard straiks and bloody crowns. 
But we will see how it will a’ end.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


281 

Elspeth did not think it proper to notice these discon- 
tented expressions of Tibbie, but they sunk into her mind ; 
for she was apt to consider her as a sort of authority in 
matters of war and policy, with which her former experi- 
ence as bower-woman at Avenel Castle made her better ac- 
quainted than were the peaceful inhabitants of the Hali- 
dome. She only spoke, however, to express her surprise 
that the hunters did not return. 

“An they come not back the sooner,” said Tibb, “they 
will fare the waur, for the meat will be roasted to a cinder 
— and there is poor Simmie that can turn the spit nae 
langer : the bairn is melting like an icicle in warm water — 
Gang awa, bairn, and take a mouthful of the caller air, and 
I will turn the broach till ye come back.” 

“Rin up to the bartizan at the tower-head, callant,” said 
Dame Glendinning, “the air will be callerer there than ony 
gate else, and bring us word if our Halbert and the gentle- 
man are coming down the glen.” 

The boy lingered long enough to allow his substitute, 
Tibb Tacket, heartily to tire of her own generosity, and of 
his cricket-stool by the side of a huge fire. He at length 
returned with the news that he had seen nobody. 

The matter was not remarkable so far as Halbert Glen- 
dinning was concerned, for, patient alike of want and of 
fatigue, it was no uncommon circumstance for him to re- 
main in the wilds till curfew time. But nobody had given 
Sir Piercie Shafton credit for being so keen a sportsman, 
and the idea of an Englishman preferring the chase to his 
dinner was altogether inconsistent with their preconcep- 
tions of the national character. Amidst wondering and 
conjecturing, the usual dinner-hour passed long away ; 
and the inmates of the tower, taking a hasty meal them- 
selves, adjourned their more solemn preparations until the 
hunters’ return at night, since it seemed now certain that 
their sport had either carried them to a greater distance, 
or engaged them for a longer time than had been expected. 

About four hours after noon, arrived, not the expected 
sportsmen, but an unlooked-for visitant, the Sub-Prior 
from the Monastery. The scene of the preceding day had 
dwelt on the mind of Father Eustace, who was of that keen 
and penetrating cast of mind which loves not to leave un- 
ascertained whatever of mysterious is subjected to its 
inquiry. His kindness was interested in the family of 
Glendearg, which he had now known for a longtime ; and 
besides, the community was interested in the preservation 


282 


THE MONASTERY. 


of the peace betwixt Sir Piercie Shafton and his youthful 
host, since whatever might draw public attention on the 
former, could not fail to be prejudicial to the Monastery, 
which was already threatened by the hand of power. He 
found the family assembled all but Mary Avenel, and was 
informed that Halbert Glendinning had accompanied the 
stranger on a day’s sport. So far was well. They had not 
returned ; but when did youth and sport conceive them- 
selves bound by set hours ? and the circumstance excited 
no alarm in his mind. 

While he was conversing with Edward Glendinning 
touching his progress in the studies he had pointed out to 
him, they were startled by a shriek from Mary Avenel’s 
apartment, which drew the whole family thither in head- 
long haste. They found her in a swoon in the arms of old 
Martin, who was bitterly accusing himself of having killed 
her ; so indeed it seemed, for her pale features and closed 
eyes argued rather a dead corpse than a living person. 
The whole family were instantly in tumult. Snatching her 
from Martin’s arms with the eagerness of affectionate ter- 
ror, Edward bore her to the casement, that she might re- 
ceive the influence of the open air ; the Sub-Prior, who, 
like many of his profession, had some knowledge of 
medicine, hastened to prescribe the readiest remedies which 
occurred to him, and the terrified females contended with 
and impeded each other, in their rival efforts to be useful. 

“ It has been ane of her weary ghaists,” said Dame Glen- 
dinning. 

“ It’s just a trembling on her spirits, as her blessed 
mother used to have,” said Tibb. 

“ It’s some ill news has come ower her,” said the miller’s 
maiden ; while burnt feathers, cold water, and all the usual 
means of restoring suspended animation, were employed 
alternately, and with little effect. 

At length a new assistant, who had joined the group 
unobserved, tendered his aid in the following terms ; — . 
“ How is this, my most fair Discretion ? What cause hath 
moved the ruby current of life to rush back to the citadel 
of the heart, leaving pale those features in which it should 
have delighted to meander forever ? — Let me approach 
her,” he said, “ with this sovereign essence, distilled by the 
fair hands of the divine Urania, and powerful to recall 
fugitive life, even if it were trembling on the verge of de- 
parture.” 

Thus speaking, Sir Piercie Shafton knelt down, and most 


THE MONASTERY. 


283 

gracefully presented to the nostrils of Mary Avenel a sil- 
ver pouncet-box, exquisitely chased, containing a sponge 
dipped in the essence which he recommended so highly. 
Yes, gentle reader, it was Sir Piercie Shafton himself who 
thus unexpectedly proffered his good offices ! his cheeks, 
indeed, very pale, and some part of his dress stained with 
blood, but not otherwise appearing different from what he 
was on the preceding evening. But no sooner had Mary 
Avenel opened her eyes, and fixed them on the figure of 
the officious courtier, than she screamed faintly, and ex- 
claimed, — “ Secure the murderer ! ” 

Those present stood aghast with astonishment, and none 
more so than the Euphuist, who found himself so suddenly 
and so strangely accused by the patient whom he was en- 
deavoring to succor, and who repelled his attempts to yield 
her assistance with all the energy of abhorrence. 

“Take him away!” she exclaimed — “take away the 
murderer ! ” 

“ Now, by my knighthood,” answered Sir Piercie, “your 
lovely faculties either of mind or body are, O my most 
fair Discretion, obnubilated by some strange hallucina- 
tion. For either your eyes do not discern that it is 
Piercie Shafton, your most devoted Affability, who now 
stands before you, or else, your eyes discerning truly, your 
mind hath most erroneously concluded that he hath been 
guilty of some delict or violence to which his hand is a 
stranger. No murder, O most scornful Discretion, hath 
been this day done, saving but that which your angry 
glances are now performing on your most devoted cap- 
tive.” 

He was here interrupted by the Sub- Prior, who had, in 
the meantime, been speaking with Martin apart, and had 
received from him an account of the circumstances, which, 
suddenly communicated to Mary Avenel, had thrown her 
into this state. “Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, in a 
very solemn tone, yet with some hesitation, “circum- 
stances have been communicated to us of a nature so ex- 
traordinary, that, reluctant as I am to exercise such au- 
thority over a guest of our venerable community, I am 
constrained to request from you an explanation of them. 
You left this tower early in the morning, accompanied by 
a youth, Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son of this good 
dame, and you return hither without him. Where, and at 
what hour, did you part company from him ?” 

The English knight paused for a moment, and then re* 


284 


THE MONASTERY. 


plied, “ I marvel that your reverence employs so grave a 
tone to enforce so light a question. I parted with the vil- 
lagio whom you call Halbert Glendinning some hour or 
twain after sunrise.” 

“ And at what place, I pray you ? ” said the monk. 

“In a deep ravine, where a fountain rises at the base of 
a huge rock ; an earth-born Titan, which heaveth up its 
gray head, even as ” 

“ Spare us farther description,” said the Sub-Prior ; “we 
know the spot. But that youth hath not since been heard 
of, and it will fall on you to account for him.” 

“ My bairn ! my bairn ! ” exclaimed Dame Glendinning. 
“ Yes, holy father, make the villain account for my bairn ! ” 

“ I swear, good woman, by bread and by water, which 
are the props of our life ” 

“ Swear by wine and wastel-bread, for these are the 
props of thy life, thou greedy Southron ! ” said Dame Glen- 
dinning — “ a base belly-god, to come here to eat the best, 
and practise on our lives that give it to him ! ” 

“ I tell thee, woman,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ I did 
but go with thy son to the hunting.” 

“A black hunting it has been to him, poor bairn,” re- 
plied Tibb ; “ and sae I said it wad prove since I first saw 
the false Southron snout of thee. Little good comes of a 
Piercie’s hunting, from Chevy Chase till now.” 

“ Be silent, woman,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and rail not 
upon the English knight ; we do not yet know of anything 
beyond suspicion.” 

“We will have his heart’s blood ! ” said Dame Glendin- 
ning ; and seconded by the faithful Tibbie, she made such 
a sudden onslaught on the unlucky Euphuist, as must 
have terminated in something serious, had not the monk, 
aided by Mysie Happer, interposed to protect him from 
their fury. Edward had left the apartment the instant the 
disturbance broke out, and now entered, sword in hand, 
followed by Martin. and Jasper, the one having a hunting- 
spear in his hand, the other a cross-bow. 

“ Keep the door,” he said to his two attendants ; “ shoot 
him or stab him without mercy, should he attempt to 
break forth ; if he offers an escape, by heaven he shall 
die ! ” 

“ How now, Edward,” said the Sub-Prior ; “how is this 
that you so far forget yourself ? meditating violence to 
a guest, and in my presence, who represent your liege 
lord ? ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


285 


Edward stepped forward with his drawn sword in his 
hand. “ Pardon me, reverend father,” he said, “ but in 
this matter the voice of nature speaks louder and stronger 
than yours. I turn my sword’s point against this proud 
man, and I demand of him the blood of my brother — the 
blood of my father’s son — of the heir of our name ! If he 
denies to give me a true account of him, he shall not deny 
me vengeance.” 

Embarrassed as he was, Sir Piercie Shafton showed no 
personal fear. “ Put up thy sword,” he said, “young man ; 
not in the same day does Piercie Shafton contend with two 
peasants.” 

“ Hear him ! he confesses the deed, holy father,” said 
Edward. 

“ Be patient, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, endeavoring 
to soothe the feelings which he could not otherwise con- 
trol, “ be patient — thou wilt attain the ends of justice bet- 
ter through my means than thine own violence — And 
you, woman, be silent— Tibb, remove your mistress and 
Mary Avenel.” 

While Tibb, with the assistance of the other females of 
the household, bore the poor mother and Mary Avenel 
into separate apartments, and while Edward, still keeping 
his sword in his hand, hastily traversed the room, as if to 
prevent the possibility of Sir Piercie Shafton’s escape, the 
Sub-Prior insisted upon knowing from the perplexed knight 
the particulars which he knew respecting Halbert Glen- 
dinning. His situation became extremely embarrassing, 
for what he might with safety have told of the issue of 
their combat was so revolting to his pride, that he could 
not bring himself to enter into the detail ; and of Halbert’s 
actual fate, he knew, as the reader is well aware, absolutely 
nothing. 

The father in the meanwhile pressed him with remon- 
strances, and prayed him to observe he would greatly preju- 
dice himself by declining to give a full account of the 
transactions of the day. “You cannot deny,” he said, 
“ that yesterday you seemed to take the most violent of- 
fence at this unfortunate youth ; and that you suppressed 
your resentment so suddenly as to impress us all with sur- 
prise. Last night you proposed to him this day’s hunting 
party, and you set out together by break of day. You 
parted, you said, at the fountain near the rock, about an 
hour or twain after sunrise, and it appears that before you 
parted you had been at strife together.” 


286 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ I said not so,” replied the knight. “ Here is a coil, 
indeed, about the absence of a rustical bondsman, who, I 
dare say, hath gone off (if he be gone) to join the next ras- 
cally band of freebooters ! Ye ask me, a knight of the 
Piercie’s lineage, to account for such an insignificant fugi- 
tive, and I answer, — let me know the price of his head, 
and I will pay it to your convent treasurer.” 

“You admit, then, that you have slain my brother!” 
said Edward, interfering once more ; “ I will presently 
show you at what price we Scots rate the lives of our 
friends.” 

“Peace, Edward, peace — I entreat — I command thee,” 
said the Sub-Prior. “ And you, Sir Knight, think better 
of us than to suppose you may spend Scottish blood, and 
reckon for it as for wine spilt in a drunken revel. This 
youth was no bondsman — thou well knowest that in thine 
own land thou hadst not dared to lift thy sword against 
the meanest subject of England, but her laws would have 
called thee to answer for the deed. Do not hope it will 
be otherwise here, for you will but deceive yourself.” 

“You drive me beyond my patience,” said the Euphuist, 
“ even as the over-driven ox is urged into madness ! — What 
can I tell you of a young fellow whom I have not seen 
since the second hour after sunrise ? ” 

“ But can you explain in what circumstances you parted 
with him ?” said the monk. 

“ What are the circumstances, in the devil’s name, which 
you desire should be explained ! — for although I pro- 
test against this constraint as alike unworthy and inhos- 
pitable, yet would I willingly end this fray, provided that 
by words it may be ended,” said the knight. 

“ If these end it not,” said Edward, “ blows shall, and 
that full speedily.” 

“Peace, impatient boy !” said the Sub-Prior; “and do 
you, Sir Piercie Shafton, acquaint me why the ground is 
bloody by the verge of the fountain in Corri-nan-shian, 
where, as you say yourself, you parted from Halbert Glen- 
dinning ? ” 

Resolute not to avow his "defeat if possibly he could 
avoid it, the knight answered in a haughty tone, that he 
supposed it was no unusual thing to find the turf bloody 
where hunters had slain a deer. 

“And did you bury your game as well as kill it ?” said 
the monk. “ We must know from you who is the tenant 
of that grave, that newly-made grave, beside the very 


THE MONASTERY. 


287 


fountain whose margin is so deeply crimsoned with blood ? 
— thou seest thou canst not evade me ; therefore be ingen- 
uous, and tell us the fate of this unhappy youth, whose 
body is doubtless lying under that bloody turf.” 

“ If it be,” said Sir Piercie, “ they must have buried him 
alive ; for I swear to thee, reverend father, that this rustic 
juvenal parted from me in perfect health. Let the grave 
be searched, and if his body be found, then deal with me 
as ye list.” 

“ It is not my sphere to determine thy fate, Sir Knight, 
but that of the Lord Abbot, and the right reverend Chap- 
ter. It is but my duty to collect such information as may 
best possess their wisdom with the matters which have 
chanced.” 

“ Might I presume so far, reverend father,” said the 
knight, “ I should wish to know the author and evidence 
of all these suspicions, so unfoundedly urged against me ?” 

“ It is soon told,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ nor do I wish to 
disguise it, if it can avail you in your defence. This 
maiden, Mary Avenel, apprehending that you nourished 
malice against her foster-brother under a friendly brow, 
did advisedly send up the old man, Martin Tacket, to fol- 
low your footsteps and to prevent mischief. But it seems 
that your evil passions had outrun precaution : for when 
he came to the spot, guided by your footsteps upon the 
dew, he found but the bloody turf and the new-covered 
grave ; and after long and vain search through the wilds 
after Halbert and yourself, he brought back the sorrowful 
news to her who had sent him.” 

“ Saw he not my doublet, I pray you ?” said Sir Piercie ; 
“for when I came to myself, I found that I was wrapped 
in my cloak, but without my undergarment as your rever- 
ence may observe.” 

So saying, he opened bis cloak, forgetting, with his char- 
acteristical inconsistency, that he showed his shirt stained 
with blood. 

“ How ! cruel man,” said the monk, when he observed 
this confirmation of his suspicions ; “ wilt thou deny the 
guilt, even while thou bearest on thy person the blood 
thou hast shed ? Wilt thou longer deny that thy rash 
hand has robbed a mother of a son, our community of a 
vassal, the Queen of Scotland of a liege subject ? and what 
canst thou expect, but that, at the least, we deliver thee 
up to England, as undeserving our farther protection ? ” 

“ By the Saints ! ” said the knight, now driven to ex- 


288 


THE MONASTERY. 


tremity, “ if this blood be the witness against me, it is but 
rebel blood, since this morning at sunrise it flowed within 
my own veins.” 

“ How were that possible, Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the 
monk, “since I see no wound from whence it can have 
flowed ? ” 

“That,” said the knight, “is the most mysterious part 
of the transaction — See here ! ” 

So saying, he undid his shirt collar, and, opening his 
bosom, showed the spot through which Halbert’s sword 
had passed, but already cicatrized, and bearing the appear- 
ance of a wound lately healed. 

“ This exhausts my patience, Sir Knight,” said the Sub- 
Prior, “and is adding insult to violence and injury. Do 
you hold me for a child or an idiot, that you pretend to 
make me believe that the fresh blood with which your 
shirt is stained, flowed from a wound which has been 
healed for weeks or months ? Unhappy mocker, thinkest 
thou thus to blind us ? Too well do we know that it is 
the blood of your victim, wrestling with you in the des- 
perate and mortal struggle, which has thus dyed your ap- 
parel.” 

The knight, after a moment’s recollection, said in reply, 
“ I will be open with you, my father — bid these men stand 
out of ear-shot, and I will tell you all I know of this mys- 
terious business ; and muse not, good father, though it may 
pass thy wit to expound it, for I avouch to you it is too 
dark for mine own.” 

The monk commanded Edward and the two men to 
withdraw, assuring the former that his conference with the 
prisoner should be brief, and giving him permission to keep 
watch at the door of the apartment ; without which allow- 
ance he might, perhaps, have had some difficulty in pro- 
curing his absence. Edward had no sooner left the chamber, 
than he despatched messengers to one or two families of 
the Halidome, with whose sons his brother and he some- 
times associated, to tell them that Halbert Glendinning 
had been murdered by an Englishman, and to require them 
to repair to the Tower of Glendearg without delay. The 
duty of revenge in such cases was held so sacred, that he 
had no reason to doubt they would instantly come with 
such assistance as would insure the detention of the pris- 
oner. He then locked the doors of the tower, both inner 
and outer, and also the gate of the courtyard. Having 
taken these precautions, he made a hasty visit to the fe- 


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289 


males of the family, exhausting himself in efforts to con- 
sole them, and in protestations that he would have ven- 
geance for his murdered brother. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. 


“ Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, ’tis hard reckoning, 

That I, with every odds of birth and barony, 

Should be detain’d here for the casual death 
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
In which he sticks his hedge-knife.” 

Old Play. 

While Edward was making preparations for securing 
and punishing the supposed murderer of his brother, with 
an intense thirst for vengeance, which had not hitherto 
shown itself as part of his character, Sir Piercie Shafton 
made such communication as it pleased him to the Sub- 
Prior, who listened with great attention, though the 
knight’s narrative was none of the clearest, especially as 
his self-conceit led him to conceal or abridge the details 
which were necessary to render it intelligible. 

“You are to know,” he said, “reverend father, that this 
rustic juvenal, having chosen to offer me, in the presence 
of your venerable Superior, yourself, and other excellent 
and worthy persons, besides the damsel, Mary Avenel, 
whom I term my Discretion in all honor and kindness, a 
gross insult, rendered yet more intolerable by the time and 
place, my just resentment did so gain the mastery over my 
discretion, that I resolved to allow him the privileges of an 
equal, and to indulge him with the combat.” 

“But, Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “you still leave 
two matters very obscure. First, why the token he pre- 
sented to you gave you so much offence, as I with others 
witnessed ; and then again, how the youth, whom you then 
met for the first, or, at least, the second time, knew so 
much of your history as enabled him so greatly to move 
you.” 

The knight colored very deeply. 

“For your first query,” he said, “most reverend father, 
we will, if you please, pretermit it as nothing essential to 
the matter in hand ; and for the second — I protest to you 
that I know as little of his means of knowledge as you do, 
19 


290 


THE MONASTERY. 


and that I am well-nigh persuaded he deals with Sathanas, 
of which more anon. Well, sir — In the evening, I failed 
not to veil my purpose with a pleasant brow, as is the cus- 
tom among us martialists, who never display the bloody 
colors of defiance in our countenance until our hand is 
armed to fight under them. I amused the fair Discretion 
with some canzonettes, and other toys, which could not 
but be ravishing to her inexperienced ears. I arose in the 
morning, and met my antagonist, who, to say truth, for an 
inexperienced villagio, comported himself as stoutly as I 
could have desired. — So, coming to the encounter, rever- 
end sir, I did try his mettle with some half-a-dozen of 
downright passes, with any one of which I could have 
been through his body, only that I was loath to take so un- 
fair an advantage, but rather, mixing mercy with my just 
indignation, studied to inflict upon him some flesh-wound 
of no very fatal quality. But, sir, in the midst of my 
clemency, he, being instigated, I think, by the devil, did 
follow up his first offence with some insult of the same 
nature. Whereupon, being eager to punish him, I made 
an estramazone, and my foot slipping at the same time — - 
not from any fault of fence on my part, or any advantage 
of skill on his, but the devil having, as I said, taken up the 
matter in hand, and the grass being slippery — ere I re- 
covered my position I encountered his sword, which he 
had advanced, with my undefended person, so that, as I 
think, I was in some sort run through the body. My 
juvenal, being beyond measure appalled at his own unex- 
pected and unmerited success in this strange encounter, 
takes the flight and leaves me there, and I fall into a dead 
swoon for the lack of the blood I had lost so foolishly — ■ 
and when I awake, as from a sound sleep, I find myself 
lying, an it like you, wrapt up in my cloak at the foot of 
one of the birch-trees which stand together in a clump 
near to this place. I feel my limbs, and experience little 
pain, but much weakness — I put my hand to the wound — • 
it was whole and skinned over as you now see it — I rise 
and come hither ; and in these words you have my whole 
day’s story.” 

“ I can only reply to so strange a tale,” answered the 
monk, “ that it is scarce possible that Sir Piercie Shafton 
can expect me to credit it. Here is a quarrel, the cause 
of which you conceal — a wound received in the morning, 
of which there is no recent appearance at sunset — a grave 
filled up, in which no body is deposited — the vanquished 


THE MONASTERY. 


291 


found alive and well — -the victor departed no man knows 
whither. These things, Sir Knight, hang not so well to- 
gether that I should receive them as gospel.” 

“ Reverend father,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, “ I 
pray you in the first place to observe, that if I offer peace- 
ful and civil justification of that which I have already 
averred to be true, I do so only in devout deference to 
your dress and to your order, protesting, that to any other 
opposite, saving a man of religion, a lady, or my liege 
prince, I would not deign to support that which I had once 
attested, otherwise than with the point of my good sword. 
And so much being premised, I have to add, that I can but 
gage my honor as a gentleman, and my faith as a Catholic 
Christian, that the things which I have described to you 
have happened to me as I have described them, and not 
otherwise.” 

“ It is a deep assertion, Sir Knight,” answered the Sub- 
Prior ; “ yet, bethink you, it is only an assertion, and that 
no reason can be alleged why things should be believed 
which are so contrary to reason. Let me pray you to say 
whether the grave, which has been seen at your place of 
combat, was open or closed ,when your encounter took 
place ? ” 

“ Reverend father,” said the knight, “ I will veil from 
you nothing, but show you each secret of my bosom ; even 
as the pure fountain revealeth the smallest pebble which 
graces the sand at the bottom of its crystal mirror, and 
as ” 

“ Speak in plain terms, for the love of heaven ! ” said 
the monk ; “these holiday phrases belong not to solemn 
affairs— Was the grave open when the conflict began ?” 

“ It was,” answered the knight, “ I acknowledge it ; even 
as he that acknowledged ” 

“Nay, I pray you, fair son, forbear these similitudes, 
and observe me. On yesterday at even no grave was 
found in that place, for old Martin chanced, contrary to 
his wont, to go thither in quest of a strayed sheep. At 
break of day, by your own confession, a grave was opened 
in that spot, and there a combat was fought — only one of 
the combatants appears, and he is covered with blood, and 
to all appearance woundless.” — Here the knight made a 
gesture of impatience. — “ Nay, fair son, hear me but one 
moment— the grave is closed and covered by the sod — 
what can we believe, but that it conceals the bloody corpse 
of the fallen duellist ? ” 


292 


THE MONASTERY, 


“ By Heaven, it cannot ! ” said the knight, “ unless the 
juvenal hath slain himself and buried himself, in order to 
place me in the predicament of his murderer.” 

“ The grave shall doubtless be explored, and that by to- 
morrow’s dawn,” said the monk ; “ I will see it done with 
mine own eyes.” 

“ But,” said the prisoner, “ I protest against all evidence 
which may arise from its contents, and do insist before- 
hand, that whatever may be found in that grave shall not 
prejudicate me in my defence. I have been so haunted 
by diabolical deceptions in this matter, that what do I 
know but that the devil may assume the form of this rus- 
tical juvenal, in order to procure me farther vexation ? — I 
protest to you, holy father, it is my very thought that there 
is witchcraft in all that hath befallen me. Since I entered 
into this northern land, in which men say that sorceries do 
abound, I, who am held in awe and regard even by the 
prime gallants in the court of Feliciana, have been here 
bearded and taunted by a clod-treading clown. I, whom 
Vincentio Saviola termed his nimblest and most agile dis- 
ciple, was, to speak briefly, foiled by a cow-boy, who knew 
no more of fence than is used at every country wake. I 
am run, as it seemed to me, through the body, with a very 
sufficient stoccata, and faint on the spot ; and yet, when I 
recover, I find myself without either wem or wound, and, 
lacking nothing of my apparel, saving my murrey-colored 
doublet, slashed with satin, which I will pray may be in- 
quired after, lest the devil, who transported me, should 
have dropped it in his passage among some of the trees or 
bushes — it being a choice and most fanciful piece of rai- 
ment, which I wore for the first time at the Queen’s 
pageant in Southwark.” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the monk, “ you do again go astray 
from this matter. I inquire of you respecting that which 
concerns the life of another man, and it may be, touches 
your own also, and you answer me with the tale of an old 
doublet ! ” 

“ Old !” exclaimed the knight ; “ now, by the gods and 
saints, if there be a gallant at the British Court more 
fancifully considerate, and more considerately fanciful, 
more quaintly curious, and more curiously quaint, in fre- 
quent changes of all rich articles of vesture, becoming one 
who may be accounted point-de-vice a courtier, I will give 
you leave to term me a slave and a liar.” 

The monk thought, but did not say, that he had already 


THE MONASTERY. 


2 93 


acquired right to doubt the veracity of the Euphuist, con- 
sidering the marvellous tale which he had told. Yet his 
own strange adventure, and that of Father Philip, rushed 
on his mind, and forbade his coming to any conclusion. 
He contented himself, therefore, with observing, that these 
were certainly strange incidents, and requested to know if 
Sir Piercie Shafton had any other reason for suspecting 
himself to be in a manner so particularly selected for the 
sport of sorcery and witchcraft. * 

“Sir Sub-Prior," said the Euphuist, “the most extraor- 
dinary circumstance remains behind, which alone, had I 
neither been bearded in dispute, nor foiled in combat, nor 
wounded and cured in the space of a few hours, would 
nevertheless of itself, and without any other corroborative, 
have compelled me to believe myself the subject of some 
malevolent fascination. Reverend sir, it is not to your 
years that men should tell tales of love and gallantry, nor 
is Sir Piercie Shafton one who, to any ears whatsoever, is 
wont to boast of his fair acceptance with the choice and 
prime beauties of the court ; insomuch that a lady, none 
of the least resplendent constellations which revolve in 
that hemisphere of honor, pleasure, and beauty, but whose 
name I here pretermit, was wont to call me her Taciturn- 
ity. Nevertheless truth must be spoken ; and I cannot but 
allow, as the general report of the court, allowed in camps, 
and echoed back by city and country, that in the alacrity 
of the accost, the tender delicacy of the regard, the face- 
tiousness of the address, the adopting and pursuing of the 
fancy, the solemn close and the graceful fall-off, Piercie 
Shafton was accounted the only gallant of the time, and so 
well accepted amongst the choicer beauties of the age, that 
no silk-hosed reveller of the presence-chamber, or plumed 
jouster of the tilt-yard, approached him by a bow’s length 
in the ladies’ regard, being the mark at which every well- 
born and generous juvenal aimeth his shaft. Nevertheless, 
reverend sir, having found in this rude place something 
which by blood and birth might be termed a lady, and be- 
ing desirous to keep my gallant humor in exercise, as well 
as to show my sworn devotion to the sex in general, I did 
shoot off some arrows of compliment at this Mary Avenel, 
terming her my Discretion, with other quaint and well- 
imagined courtesies, rather bestowed out of my bounty 
than warranted by her merit, or perchance, like unto the 
boyish fowler, who, rather than not exercise his bird-piece, 
will shoot at crows or magpies for lack of better game ’’ * 


294 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Mary Avenel is much obliged by your notice,” an- 
swered the monk ; “but to what does all this detail of past 
and present gallantry conduct us ? ” 

“ Marry, to this conclusion,” answered the knight ; “ that 
either this my Discretion, or I myself, am little less than 
bewitched ; for, instead of receiving my accost with a grati- 
fied bow, answering my regard with a suppressed smile, 
accompanying my falling off or departure with a slight 
sigh — honors with which I protest to you the noblest 
dancers and proudest beauties in Feliciana have graced 
my poor services— she hath paid me as little and as cold 
regard as if I had been some hob-nailed clowm of these 
bleak mountains! Nay, this very day, while I was in the 
act of kneeling at her feet to render her the succors of this 
pungent quintessence of purest spirit distilled by the fair- 
est hands of the court of Feliciana, she pushed me from 
her with looks which savored of repugnance, and, as I 
think, thrust at me with her foot as if to spurn me from 
her presence. These things, reverend father, are strange, 
portentous, unnatural, and befall not in the current of 
mortal affairs, but are symptomatic of sorcery and fascina- 
tion. So that, having given to your reverence a perfect, 
simple, and plain account of all that I know concerning 
this matter, I leave it to your wisdom to solve what may 
be found soluble in the same, it being my purpose to-mor- 
row, with the peep of dawn, to set forward toward Edin- 
burgh.” 

“I grieve to be an interruption to your designs, Sir 
Knight,” said the monk, “but that purpose of thine may 
hardly be fulfilled.” 

“ How, reverend father ! ” said the knight, with an air of 
the utmost surprise ; “ if what you say respects my de- 
parture, understand that it must be, for I have so resolved 

it.” 

“ Sir Knight,” reiterated the Sub-Prior, “ I must once 
more repeat, this cannot be, until the Abbot’s pleasure be 
known in the matter.” 

“ Reverend Sir,” said the knight, drawing himself up 
with great dignity, “ I desire my hearty and thankful com- 
mendations to the Abbot ; but in this matter I have nothing 
to do with his reverend pleasure, designing only to con- 
sult my own.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ the Lord Abbot 
hath in this matter a voice potential.” 

Sir Piercie Shaf ton’s color began to rise — “ I marvel,’’ 


THE MONASTERY. 


295 


he said, “ to hear your reverence talk thus — What ! will 
you, for the imagined death of a rude low-born frampler 
and wrangler, venture to impinge upon the liberty of the 
kinsman of the house of Piercie ? ” 

“Sir Knight,’’ returned the Sub-Prior, civilly, “your 
high lineage and your kindling anger will avail you noth- 
ing in this matter — You shall not come here to seek a 
shelter, and then spill our blood as if it were water.” 

“I tell you,” said the knight, “once more, as I have 
told you already, that there was no blood spilled but mine 
own ! ” 

“That remains to be proved,” replied the Sub-Prior; 
“we of the community of Saint Mary’s of Kennaquhair, 
use not to take fairy tales in exchange for the lives of our 
liege vassals.” 

“ We of the house of Piercie,” answered Shafton, “brook 
neither threats nor restraint — I say I will travel to-mor- 
row, happen what may ! ” 

“And I,” answered the Sub-Prior, in the same tone of 
determination, “ say that I will break your journey, come 
what may ! ” 

“Who shall gainsay me,” said the knight, “if I make 
my way by force ? ” 

“You will judge wisely to think ere you make such an 
attempt,” answered the monk, with composure ; “there are 
men enough in the Halidome to vindicate its rights over 
those who dare to infringe them.” 

“My cousin of Northumberland will know how to re- 
venge this usage to a beloved kinsman so near to his blood,” 
said the Englishman. 

“The Lord Abbot will know how to protect the rights 
of his territory, both with the temporal and spiritual 
sword,” said the monk. “ Besides, consider, were we to 
send you to your kinsman at Alnwick or Warkworth to- 
morrow, he dare do nothing but transmit you in fetters 
to the Queen of England. Bethink, Sir Knight, that you 
stand on slippery ground, and will act most wisely in rec- 
onciling yourself to be a prisoner in this place until the 
Abbot shall decide the matter. There are armed men 
enow to countervail all your efforts at escape. Let pa- 
tience and resignation, therefore, arm you to a necessary 
submission.” 

So saying, he clapped his hands and called aloud. Ed- 
ward entered, accompanied by two young men who had 
already joined him, and were well armed. 


2g6 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Edward,” said the Sub-Prior, “you will supply the 
English knight here in this spence with suitable food and 
accommodation for the night, treating him with as much 
kindness as if nothing had happened between you. But 
you will place a sufficient guard, and look carefully that 
he make not his escape. Should he attempt to break 
forth, resist him to the death ; but in no other case harm 
a hair of his head, as you shall be answerable.” 

Edward Glendinning replied, — “That I may obey your 
commands, reverend sir, I will not again offer myself to 
this person’s presence ; for shame it were to me to break 
the peace of the Halidome, but not less shame to leave my 
brother’s death unavenged.” 

As he spoke, his lips grew livid, the blood forsook his 
cheek, and he was about to leave the apartment, when the 
Sub-Prior recalled him and said in a solemn tone, — “ Ed- 
ward, I have known you from infancy — I have done what 
lay within my reach to be of use to you — I say nothing 
of what you owe to me as the representative of your 
spiritual Superior — I say nothing of the duty from the 
vassal to the Sub-Prior — But Father Eustace expects 
from the pupil whom he has nurtured — he expects from 
Edward Glendinning, that he will not by any deed of sud- 
den violence, however justified in his own mind by the 
provocation, break through the respect due to public jus- 
tice, or that which he has an especial right to claim from 
him.” 

“Fear nothing, my reverend father, for so in an hun- 
dred senses may I well term you,” said the young man ; 
“fear not, I would say, that I will in anything diminish 
the respect I owe to the venerable community by whom 
we have so long been protected, far less that I will do 
aught which can be personally less than respectful to you. 
But the blood of my brother must not cry for vengeance 
in vain — your reverence knows our Border creed.” 

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will requite 
it,’” answered the monk. “The heathenish custom of 
deadly feud which prevails in this land, through which 
each man seeks vengeance at his own hand when the death 
of a friend or kinsman has chanced, hath already deluged 
our vales with the blood of Scottish men, spilled by the 
hands of countrymen and kindred. It were endless to 
count up the fatal results. On the Eastern Border, the 
Homes are at feud with the Swintons and Cockburns ; in 
our Middle Marches, the Scotts and Kerrs have spilled as 


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297 


much brave blood in domestic feud as might have fought 
a pitched field in England, could they have but forgiven 
and forgotten a casual rencounter that placed their names 
in opposition to each other. On the west frontier, the 
Johnstones are at war with the Maxwells, the Jardines 
with the Bells, drawing with them the flower of the coun- 
try, which should place their breasts as a bulwark against 
England, into private and bloody warfare, of which it is 
the only end to waste and impair the forces of the country, 
already divided in itself. Do not, my dear son Edward, 
permit this bloody prejudice to master your mind. I can- 
not ask you to think of the crime supposed as if the blood 
spilled had been less dear to you — Alas ! I know that is 
impossible. But I do require you, in proportion to your 
interest in the supposed sufferer (for as yet the whole is 
matter of supposition), to bear on your mind the evidence 
on which the guilt of the accused person must be tried. 
He hath spoken with me, and I confess his tale is so ex- 
traordinary, that I should have, without a moment’s hesi- 
tation, rejected it as incredible, but that an affair which 
chanced to myself in this very glen — More of that another 
time — Suffice it for the present to say, that from what I 
have myself experienced, I deem it possible, that, extra- 
ordinary as Sir Piercie Shafton’s story may seem, I hold it 
not utterly impossible.” 

“ Father,” said Edward Glendinning, when he saw that 
bis preceptor paused, unwilling farther to explain upon 
what grounds he was inclined to give a certain degree of 
credit to Sir Piercie Shafton’s story, while he admitted it as 
improbable — “Father to me you have been in every sense. 
You know that my hand grasped more readily to the book 
than to the sword ; and that I lacked utterly the ready and 
bold spirit which distinguished” Here his voice fal- 

tered, and he paused for a moment, and then went on with 
resolution and rapidity— “ I would say, that I was unequal 
to Halbert in promptitude of heart and of hand ; but Hal- 
bert is gone, and I stand his representative, and that of my 
father— his successor in all his rights ” (while he said this 
his eyes shot fire), “ and bound to assert and maintain 
them as he would have done — therefore I am a changed 
man, increased in courage as in my rights and pretensions. 
And, reverend father, respectfully, but plainly and firmly 
do I say, his blood, if it has been shed by this man, shall 
be atoned— Halbert shall not sleep neglected in his lonely 
grave, as if with him the spirit Qf my father had ceased for 


2gS 


THE MONASTERY . 1 


ever. His blood flows in my veins, and while his has 
been poured forth unrequited, mine will permit me no 
rest. My poverty and meanness of rank shall not avail the 
lordly murderer. My calm nature and peaceful studies 
shall not be his protection. Even the obligations, holy 
father, which I acknowledge to you, shall not be his pro- 
tection. I wait with patience the judgment of the Abbot 
and Chapter for the slaughter of one of their most an- 
ciently descended vassals. If they do right to my brother’s 
memory, it is well. But mark me, father, if they shall fail 
in rendering me that justice, I bear a heart and a hand 
which, though I love not such extremit ies, are capable of 
remedying such an error. He who takes up my brother’s 
succession must avenge his death.” 

The monk perceived with surprise that Edward, with his 
extreme diffidence, humility, and obedient assiduity, for 
such were his general characteristics, had still boiling in 
his veins the wild principles of those from whom he was 
descended, and by whom he was surrounded. His eyes 
sparkled, his frame was agitated, and the extremity of his 
desire of vengeance seemed to give a vehemence to his 
manner resembling the restlessness of joy. 

“May God help us,” said Father Eustace, “for, frail 
wretches as we are, we cannot help ourselves under sudden 
and strong temptation. Edward, I will rely on your word 
that you do nothing rashly.” 

“ That will I not,” said Edward, “that, my better than 
father, I surely will not. But the blood of my brother — 
the tears of my mother — and — and — and of Mary Avenel, 
shall not be shed in vain. I will not deceive you, father — • 
if this Piercie Shafton hath slain my brother, he dies, if 
the whole blood of the whole house of Piercie were in his 
veins.” 

There was a deep and solemn determination in the 
utterance of Edward Glendinning, expressive of a rooted 
resolution. The Sub-Prior sighed deeply, and for the 
moment yielded to circumstances, and urged the acquies- 
cence of his pupil no further. He commanded lights to 
be placed in the lower chamber, which fora time he paced 
in silence. 

A thousand ideas, and even differing principles, -debated 
with each other in his bosom. He greatly doubted the 
English knight’s account of the duel, and of what had 
followed it. Yet the extraordinary and supernatural cir- 
cumstances which had befallen the Sacristan and himself 


THE MONASTERY. 


299 

in that very glen prevented him from being absolutely 
incredulous on the score of the wonderful wound and 
recovery of Sir Piercie Shafton, and prevented him from 
at once condemning as impossible that which was alto- 
gether improbable. Then he was at a loss how to control 
the fraternal affections of Edward, with respect to whom 
he felt something like the keeper of a wild animal, a lion’s 
whelp or tiger’s cub, which he has held under his command 
from infancy, but which, when grown to maturity, on some 
sudden provocation displays his fangs and talons, erects 
his crest, resumes his savage nature, and bids defiance at 
once to his keeper and to all mankind. 

How to restrain and mitigate an ire which the universal 
example of the times rendered deadly and inveterate, was 
sufficient cause of anxiety to Father Eustace. But he had 
also to consider the situation of his community, dishon- 
ored and degraded by submitting to suffer the slaughter 
of a vassal to pass unavenged ; a circumstance which of 
itself might in those difficult times have afforded pretext 
for a revolt among their wavering adherents, or, on the 
other hand, exposed the community to imminent danger, 
should they proceed against a subject of England of high 
degree, connected with the house of Northumberland, and 
other northern families of high rank, who, as they possessed 
the means, could not be supposed to lack inclination, to 
wreak upon the patrimony of St. Mary of Kennaquhair, 
any violence which might be offered to their kinsman. 

In either case, the Sub-Prior well knew that the ostensi- 
ble cause of feud, insurrection, or incursion, being once 
afforded, the case would not be ruled either by reason or 
by evidence, and he groaned in spirit when, upon count- 
ing up the chances which arose in this ambiguous dilemma, 
lie found he had only a choice of difficulties. He was a 
monk, but he felt also as a man, indignant at the supposed 
slaughter of young Glendinning by one skilful in all the 
practice of arms, in which the vassal of the Monastery was 
most likely to be deficient ; and to aid the resentment 
which he felt for the loss of a -youth whom he had known 
from infancy, came in full force the sense of dishonor aris- 
ing to his community from passing over so gross an insult 
unavenged. Then the light in which it might be viewed 
by those who at present presided in the stormy court of 
Scotland, attached as they were to the Reformation, and 
allied by common faith and common interest with Queen 
Elizabeth, was a formidable subject of apprehension. The 


3 °° 


THE MONASTERY. 


Sub-Prior well knew how they lusted after the revenue* 
of the Church (to express it in the ordinary phrase of the 
religious of the time), and how readily they would grasp 
at such a pretext for encroaching on those of St. Mary’s, 
as would be afforded by the suffering to pass unpunished 
the death of a native Scottishman by a Catholic English- 
man, a rebel to Queen Elizabeth. 

On the other hand, to deliver up to England, or, which 
was nearly the same thing, to the Scottish administration, 
an English knight, leagued with the Piercie by kindred 
and political intrigue, a faithful follower of the Catholic 
Church, who had fled to the Halidome for protection, was, 
in the estimation of the Sub-Prior, an act most unworthy 
in itself, and meriting the malediction of Heaven, besides 
being, moreover, fraught with great temporal risk. If the 
government of Scotland was now almost entirely in the 
hands of the Protestant party, the Queen was still a Catho- 
lic, and there was no knowing when, amid the sudden 
changes which agitated that tumultuous country, she might 
find herself at the head of her own affairs, and able to pro- 
tect those of her own faith. Then, if the court of Eng- 
land and its Queen were zealously Protestant, the northern 
counties, whose friendship or enmity were pf most conse- 
quence in the first instance to the community of St. Mary’s, 
contained many Catholics, the heads of whom were able, 
and must be supposed willing, to avenge any injury suf- 
fered by Sir Piercie Shafton. 

On either side, the Sub-Prior, thinking, according to his 
sense of duty, most anxiously for the safety and welfare of 
his Monastery, saw the greatest risk of damage, blame, in- 
road, and confiscation. The only course on which he 
could determine, was to stand by the helm like a resolute 
pilot, watch every contingence, do his best to weather each 
reef and shoal, and commit the rest to heaven and his 
patroness. 

As he left the apartment, the knight called after him, 
beseeching he would order his trunk-mails to be sent into 
his apartment, understanding he was to be guarded there 
for the night, as he wished to make some alteration in his 
apparel.* 

“Ay, ay,” said the monk, muttering as he went up the 
winding stair, “ carry him his trumpery with all despatch. 
Alas ! that man, with so many noble objects of pursuit, 

* Note L Foppery of the Sixteenth Century. 


THE MONASTERY. 


301 


will amuse himself like a jackanape, with a laced jerkin 
and a cap and bells ! — I must now to the Tnelancholy work 
of consoling that which is well-nigh inconsolable, a mother 
weeping for her first-born.” 

Advancing, after a gentle knock, into the apartment of 
the women, he found that Mary Avenel had retired to bed, 
extremely indisposed, and that Dame Glendinning and 
Tibb were indulging their sorrows by the side of a decay- 
ing fire, and by the light of a small iron lamp or cruise, as 
it was termed. Poor Elspeth’s apron was thrown over 
her head, and bitterly did she sob and weep for “ her 
beautiful, her brave, — the very image of her dear Simon 
Glendinning, the stay of her widowhood and the support 
of her old age.” 

The faithful Tibb echoed her complaints, and more vio- 
lently clamorous, made deep promises of revenge on Sir 
Piercie Shafton, “ if there were a man left in the south 
who could draw a whinger, or a woman that could thraw a 
rape.” The presence of the Sub-Prior imposed silence on 
these clamors. He sat down by the unfortunate mother, 
and essayed, by such topics as his religion and reason 
suggested, to interrupt the current of Dame Glendinning’s 
feelings ; but the attempt was in vain. She listened, in- 
deed, with some little interest, while he pledged his word 
and his influence with the Abbot, that the family which 
had lost their eldest born by means of a guest received at 
his command, should experience particular protection at 
the hands of the community ; and that the fief which 
belonged to Simon Glendinning shouid, with extended 
bounds and added privileges, be conferred on Edward. 

But it was only for a very brief space that the mother’s 
sobs were apparently softer, and her grief more mild. She 
soon blamed herself for casting a moment’s thought upon 
world’s gear while poor Halbert was lying stretched in his 
bloody shirt. The Sub-Prior was not more fortunate, 
when he promised that Halbert’s body “ should be re- 
moved to hallowed ground, and his soul secured by the 
prayers of the Church in his behalf.” Grief would have 
its natural course, and the voice of the comforter was 
wasted in vain. 


3Q2 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH. 

He is at liberty, I have ventured for him ! 

if the law 

Find and condemn me for’t, some living wenches, 

Some hone&t-hearted maids will sing my dirge, 

And tell to memory my death was noble, 

Dying almost a martyr. 

The Two Noble Kinsmen. 

The Sub-Prior of Saint Mary’s, in taking his departure 
from the spence in which Sir Piercie Shafton was con- 
fined, and in which some preparations were made for his 
passing the night as the room which might be most con- 
veniently guarded, left more than one perplexed person 
behind him. There was connected with this chamber, and 
opening into it, a small outshot , or projecting part of the 
building, occupied by a sleeping apartment, which, upon 
ordinary occasions, was that of Mary A venel, and which, 
in the unusual number of guests who had come to the 
tower on the former evening, had also accommodated Mysie 
Happer, the Miller’s daughter ; for anciently, as well as in 
the present day, a Scottish house was always rather too 
narrow and limited for the extent of the owner’s hos- 
pitality, and some shift and contrivance was necessary, 
upon any unusual occasion, to insure the accommodation of 
all the guests. 

The fatal news of Halbert Glendinning’s death had 
thrown all former arrangements into confusion. Mary 
Avenel, whose case required immediate attention, had 
been transported into the apartment hitherto occupied by 
Halbert and his brother, as the latter proposed to watch 
all night, in order to prevent the escape of the prisoner. 
Poor Mysie had been altogether overlooked, and had nat- 
urally enough betaken herself to the little apartment 
whicii she had hitherto occupied, ignorant that the spence, 
through which lay the only access to it, was to be the 
sleeping chamber of Sir Piercie Shafton. The measures 
taken for securing him there had been so sudden that she 
was not aware of it, until she found that the other females 
had been removed from the spence by the Sub-Prior’s 
direction, and having once missed the opportunity of re- 
reating along with them, bashfulness, and the high respect 
which she was taught to bear to the monks, prevented 


THE MONASTERY. 


303 


her venturing forth alone, and intruding herself on the 
presence of Father Eustace, while in secret conference 
with the Southron. There appeared no remedy but to 
wait till their interview was over ; and, as the door was 
thin, and did not shut very closely, she could hear every 
word that passed betwixt them. 

It thus happened, that without any intended intrusion on 
her part, she became privy to the whole conversation of 
the Sub-Prior and the English knight, and could also ob- 
serve from the window of her little retreat, that more than 
one of the young men summoned by Edward arrived suc- 
cessively at the tower. These circumstances led her to 
entertain most serious apprehension that the life of Sir 
Piercie Shafton was in great and instant peril. 

Woman is naturally compassionate, and not less willingly 
so when youth and fair features are on the side of him who 
claims her sympathy. The handsome presence, elaborate 
dress and address of Sir Piercie Shafton, which had failed 
to make any favorable impression on the grave and lofty 
character of Mary Avenel, had completely dazzled and 
bewildered the poor Maid of the Mill. The knight had 
perceived this result, and, flattered by seeing that his merit 
was not universally underrated, he had bestowed on Mysie 
a good deal more of his courtesy than in his opinion her 
rank warranted. It was not cast away, but received with 
a devout sense of his condescension, and with gratitude 
for his personal notice, which, joined to her fears for his 
safety, and the natural tenderness of her disposition, began 
to make wild work in her heart. 

“ To be sure it was very wrong in him to slay Halbert 
Glendinning” (it was thus she argued the case with her- 
self), “ but then he was a gentleman born, and a soldier, 
and so gentle and courteous withal, that she was sure the 
quarrel had been all of young Glendinning’s own seeking; 
for it was well known that both these lads were so taken 
up with that Mary Avenel, that they never looked at an- 
other lass in the Halidome, more than if they were of a 
different degree. And then Halbert’s dress was as clown- 
ish as his manners were haughty ; and this poor young 
gentleman (who was habited like any prince), banished 
from his own land, was first drawn into a quarrel by a rude 
brangler, and then persecuted and like to be put to death 
by his kin and allies.” 

Mysie wept bitterly at the thought, and then, her heart 
rising against such cruelty and oppression to a defenceless 


304 


THE MONASTERY. 


stranger, who dressed with so much skill, and spoke with 
so much grace, she began to consider whether she could 
not render him some assistance in this extremity. 

Her mind was now entirely altered from its original pur- 
pose. At first her only anxiety had been to find the means 
of escaping from the interior apartment, without being 
noticed by any one ; but now she began to think that 
Heaven had placed her there for the safety and protection 
of the persecuted stranger. She was of a simple and af- 
fectionate, but at the same time an alert and enterprising 
character, possessing more than female strength of body, 
and more than female courage, though with feelings as 
capable of being bewildered with gallantry of dress and 
language, as a fine gentleman of any generation would 
have desired to exercise his talents upon. “ I will save 
him,” she thought, “that is the first thing to be resolved — 
and then I wonder what he will say to the poor Miller’s 
maiden, that has done for him what all the dainty dames 
in London or Holyrood would have been afraid to venture 
upon.” 

Prudence began to pull her sleeve as she indulged 
speculations so hazardous, and hinted to her that the 
warmer Sir Piercie Shafton’s gratitude might prove, it was 
the more likely to be fraught with danger to his bene- 
factress. Alas ! poor Prudence, thou mayest say with our 
moral teacher, 


“I preach for ever, but I preach in vain.” 


The Miller’s maiden, while you pour your warning into her 
unwilling bosom, has glanced her eye on the small mirror 
by which she has placed her little lamp, and it returns to 
her a countenance and eyes, pretty and sparkling at all 
times, but ennobled at present with the energy of expres- 
sion proper to those who have dared to form, and stand 
prepared to execute, deeds of generous audacity. “Will 
these features — will these eyes, joined to the benefit I am 
about to confer upon Sir Piercie Shafton, do nothing to- 
ward removing the distance of rank between us ? ” 

Such was the question which female vanity asked of 
fancy ; and though even fancy dared not answer in a ready 
affirmative, a middle conclusion was adopted — “ Let me 
first succor the gallant youth, and trust to fortune for the 
rest.” 

Banishing, therefore, from her mind everything that 


THE MONASTERY. 


305 


was personal to herself, the rash but generous girl turned 
her whole thoughts to the means of executing this en- 
terprise. 

The difficulties which interposed were of no ordinary 
nature. The vengeance of the men of that country, in 
cases of deadly feud, that is, in cases of a quarrel excited 
by the slaughter of any of their relations, was one of their 
most marked characteristics ; and Edward, however gentle 
in other respects, was so fond of his brother, that there 
could be no doubt that he would be as signal in his re- 
venge as the customs of the country authorized. There 
were to be passed the inner door of the apartment, the two 
gates of the tower itself, and the gate of the courtyard, 
ere the prisoner was at liberty ; and then a guide and 
means of flight were to be provided, otherwise ultimate es- 
cape was impossible. But where the will of woman is 
strongly bent on the accomplishment of such a purpose, 
her wit is seldom baffled by difficulties, however embar- 
rassing. 

The Sub-Prior had not long left the apartment, ere My- 
sie had devised a scheme for Sir Pi'ercie Shafton’s freedom, 
daring, indeed, but likely to be successful, if dexterously 
conducted. It was necessary, however, that she should 
remain where she was till so late an hour, that all in the 
tower should have betaken themselves to repose, except- 
ing those whose duty made them watchers. The interval 
she employed in observing the movements of the person 
in whose service she was thus boldly a volunteer. 

She could hear Sir Piercie Shafton pace the floor to and 
fro, in reflection doubtless on his own untoward fate and 
precarious situation. By and by she heard him making a 
rustling among his trunks, which, agreeable to the order 
of the Sub-Prior, had been placed in the apartment 
to which he was confined, and which he was probably 
amusing more melancholy thoughts by examining and 
arranging. Then she could hear him resume his walk 
through the room, and, as if his spirits had been some- 
what relieved and elevated by the survey of his wardrobe, 
she could distinguish that at one turn he half-recited a 
sonnet, at another half whistled a galliard, and at the third 
hummed a saraband. At length she could understand that 
he extended himself on the temporary couch which had 
been allotted to him, after muttering his prayers hastily, 
and in a short time she concluded he must be fast asleep. 

She employed the moments which intervened in con- 
20 


3°6 


THE MONASTERY. 


sidering her enterprise under every different aspect ; and, 
dangerous as it was, the steady review which she took of 
the various perils accompanying her purpose, furnished 
her with plausible devices for obviating them. Love and 
generous compassion, which give singly such powerful 
impulse to the female heart, were in this case united, and 
championed heir to the last extremity of hazard. 

It was an hour past midnight All in the tower slept 
sound but those who had undertaken to guard the Eng- 
lish prisoner ; or if sorrow and suffering drove sleep from 
the bed of Dame Glendinning and her foster-daughter, 
they were too much wrapt in their own griefs to attend to 
external sounds. The means of striking light were at hand 
in the small apartment, and thus the Miller’s maiden was 
enabled to light and trim a small lamp. With a trembling 
step and throbbing heart, she undid the door which sepa- 
rated her from the apartment in which the Southron knight 
was confined, and almost flinched from her fixed purpose, 
when she found herself in the same room with the sleep- 
ing prisoner. She scarcely trusted herself to look upon 
him, as he lay wrapped in his cloak, and fast asleep upon 
the pallet bed, but turned her eyes away while she gently 
pulled his mantle with no more force than was just equal 
to awaken him. He moved not until she had twitched his 
cloak a second and a third time, and then at length, look- 
ing up, was about to make an exclamation in the sudden- 
ness of his surprise. 

Mysie’s bashfulness was conquered by her fear. She 
placed her fingers on her lips, in token that he must observe 
the most strict silence, and then pointed to the door to in- 
timate that it was watched. 

Sir Piercie Shafton now collected himself, and sat up- 
right on his couch. He gazed with surprise on the grace- 
ful figure of the young woman who stood before him ; 
her well-formed person, her flowing hair, and the outline 
of her features showed dimly, and yet to advantage, by the 
partial and feeble light which she held in her hand. The 
romantic imagination of the gallant would s.oon have coined 
some compliment proper for the occasion, but Mysie left 
him not time. 

“I come,” she said, “to save your life, which is eke in 
great peril — if you answer me, speak as low as you can, 
for they have sentinelled your door with armed men.” 

“ Comeliest of miller’s daughters,” answered Sir Piercie, 
who by this time was sitting upright on his couch, “ dread 


THE MONASTERY. 


3°7 


nothing for my safety. Credit me, that, as in very truth, 
I have not spilled the red puddle (which these villagios 
call the blood) of their most uncivil relation, so I am under 
no apprehension whatever for the issue of this restraint, 
seeing that it cannot but be harmless to me. Natheless, 
to thee, O most Molendinar beauty, I return the thanks 
which thy courtesy may justly claim.” 

“Nay, but, Sir Knight,” answered the maiden, in a 
whisper as low as it was tremulous, “ I deserve no thanks 
unless you will act by my counsel. Edward Glendinning 
hath sent for Dan of the PI owlet-hirst, and young A die of 
Aiken shaw, and they are come with three men more, and 
with bow, and jack, and spear, and I heard them say to 
each other, and to Edward, as they alighted in the court, 
that they would have amends for the death of their kins- 
man, if the monk’s cowl should smoke for it — And the 
vassals are so wilful now, that the Abbot himself dare not 
control them, for fear they turn heretics, and refuse to pay 
their feu-duties.” 

“ In faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “it may be a shrewd 
temptation, and perchance the monks may rid themselves 
of trouble and cumber, by handing me over the march to 
Sir John Foster or Lord Hunsdon, the English wardens, 
and so make peace with their vassals and with England at 
once. Fairest Molinara, I will for once walk by thy rede, 
and if thou dost contrive to extricate me from this vile 
kennel, I will so celebrate thy wit and beauty, that the 
Baker’s nymph of Raphael d’Urbino shall seem but a 
gypsy in comparison of my Molinara.” 

“ I pray you, then, be silent,” said the Miller’s daughter; 
“ for if your speech betrays that you are awake, my scheme 
fails utterly, and it is Heaven’s mercy and Our Lady’s that 
we are not already overheard and discovered.” 

“ I am silent,” replied the Southron, “even as the star- 
less night — but yet — if this contrivance of thine should 
endanger thy safety, fair and no less kind than fair damsel, 
it were utterly unworthy of me to accept it at thy hand.” 

“Do not think of me,” said Mysie, hastily; “I am safe — 
I will take thought for myself, if I once saw you out of 
this dangerous dwelling — if you would provide yourseli 
with any part of your apparel or goods, lose no time.” 

The Knight did, however, lose some time ere he could 
settle in his own mind what to take and what to abandon 
of his wardrobe, each article of which seemed endeared to 
him by recollection of the feasts and revels at which it had 


3°8 


THE MONASTERY. 


been exhibited. For some little while Mysie left him to 
make his selections at leisure, for she herself had also 
some preparations to make for flight. But when, return- 
ing from the chamber into which she had retired, with a 
small bundle in her hand, she found him still indecisive, 
she insisted in plain terms, that he should either make up 
his baggage for the enterprise, or give it up entirely. Thus 
urged, the disconsolate knight hastily made up a few 
clothes into a bundle, regarded his trunk-mails with a 
mute expression of parting sorrow, and intimated his 
readiness to wait upon his kind guide. 

She led the way to the door of the apartment, having 
first carefully extinguished her lamp, and motioning to the 
knight to stand close behind her, tapped once or twice at 
the door. She was at length answered by Edward Glen- 
dinning, who demanded to know who knocked within, and 
what was desired. 

“Speak low,” said Mysie Happer, “or you will awaken 
the English knight. It is I, Mysie Happer, who knock — 
I wish to get out — you have locked me up — and I was 
obliged to wait till the Southron slept.” 

“Locked you up!” replied Edward, in surprise. 

“Yes,” answered the Miller’s daughter, “ you have locked 
me up into this room — I was in Mary Avenel’s sleeping 
apartment.” 

“And can you not remain there till morning,” replied 
Edward, “ since it has so chanced ?” 

“What !” said the Miller’s daughter, in a tone of offended 
delicacy, “I remain here a moment longer when I can get 
out without discovery ! — I would not, for all the Halidome 
of Saint Mary’s, remain a minute longer in the neighbor- 
hood of a man’s apartment than I can help it — For whom, 
or for what, do you hold me ? I promise you my father’s 
daughter has been better brought up than to put in peril 
her good name.” 

“Come forth then, and get to thy chamber in silence,” 
said Edward. 

So saying, he undid the bolt. The staircase without was 
in utter darkness, as Mysie had before ascertained. So 
soon as she stept out, she took hold of Edward as if to sup- 
port herself, thus interposing her person betwixt him and 
Sir Piercie Shafton, by whom she was closely followed. 
Thus screened from observation, the Englishman slipped 
past on tiptoe, unshod and in silence, while the damsel 
complained to Edward that she wanted a light. 


T. II E MONASTERY. 


3°9 


“ I cannot get you a light,” said he, “ for I cannot leave 
this post ; but there is a fire below.” 

“ I will sit below till morning,” said the Maid of the 
Mill ; and, tripping downstairs, heard Edward bolt and 
bar the door of the now tenantless apartment with vain 
caution. 

At the foot of the stairs which she descended, she found the 
object of her care waiting her farther directions. She recom- 
mended to him the most absolute silence, which, for once 
in his life, he seemed not unwilling to observe, conducted 
him, with as much caution as if he were walking on cracked 
ice, to a dark recess, used for depositing wood, and in- 
structed him to ensconce himself behind the fagots. She 
herself lighted her lamp once more at the kitchen fire, and 
took her distaff and spindle, that she might not seem to be 
unemployed, in case any one came into the apartment. 
From time to time, however, she stole toward the window 
on tiptoe, to catch the first glance of the dawn, for the 
farther prosecution of her adventurous project. At length 
she saw, to her great joy, the first peep of the morning 
brighten upon the gray clouds of the east, and, clasping 
her hands together, thanked Our Lady for the sight, and 
implored protection during the remainder of her enter- 
prise. Ere she had finished her prayer, she started at 
feeling a man’s arm across her shoulder, while a rough 
voice spoke in her ear — “ What ! menseful Mysie of the 
Mill so soon at her prayers ! — now, benison on the bonny 
eyes that open so early ! — I’ll have a kiss for good mor- 
row’s sake.” 

Dan of the Howlet-hirst^for he was the gallant who paid 
Mysie this compliment, suited the action with the word, 
and the action, as is usual in such cases of rustic gal- 
lantry, was rewarded with a cuff, which Dan received as a 
fine gentleman receives a tap with a fan, but which, deliv- 
ered by the energetic arm of the Miller’s maiden, would 
have certainly astonished a less robust gallant. 

“ How now, Sir Coxcomb ! ” said she, “ and must you 
be away from your guard over the English knight, to 
plague quiet folks with your horse-tricks?” 

“Truly you are mistaken, pretty Mysie,” said the clown, 
“for I have not yet relieved Edward at his post ; and were 
it not a shame to let him stay any longer, by my faith, I 
could find it in my heart not to quit you these two hours.” 

“Oh, you have hours and hours enough to see anyone,” 
said Mysie ; “ but you must think of the distress of the 


3 TO 


THE MONASTERY. 


household even now, and get Edward to sleep for a while, 
for lie has kept watch this whole night." 

“ I will have another kiss first,” answered Dan of the 
Howie t-hirst. 

But Mysie was now on her guard, and, conscious of the 
vicinity of the wood-hole, offered such strenuous resistance, 
that the swain cursed the nymph’s bad humor with very 
unpastoral phrase and emphasis, and ran up stairs to relieve 
the guard of his comrade. Stealing to the door, she heard 
the new sentinel hold a brief conversation with Edward, 
after which the latter withdrew, and the former entered 
upon the duties of his watch. 

Mysie suffered him to walk there a little while undis- 
turbed, until the dawning became more general, by which 
time she supposed he might have digested her coyness, 
and then presenting herself before the watchful sentinel, 
demanded of him “the keys of the outer tower, and of the 
courtyard gate.” 

“ And for what purpose ? ” answered the warder. 

“To milk the cows, and drive them out to their past- 
ure,” said Mysie ; “ you would not have the poor beasts 
kept in the byre a’ morning, and the family in such dis- 
tress that there is na ane fit to do a turn but the byre- 
woman and myself?” 

“ And where is the byre-woman ? ” said Dan. 

“ Sitting with me in the kitchen, in case these distressed 
folks want anything.” 

“There are the keys, then, Mysie Dorts,” said the sen- 
tinel. 

“ Many thanks, Dan Ne’er-do-weel,” answered the Maid 
of the Mill, and escaped down stairs in a moment. 

To hasten to the wood-hole, and there to robe the Eng- 
lish knight in a short gown and petticoat, which she had 
provided for the purpose, was the work of another moment. 
She then undid the gates of the tower, and made toward 
the byre, or cow-house, which stood in one corner of the 
courtyard. Sir Piercie Shafton remonstrated against the 
delay which this would occasion. 

“ Fair and generous Molinara,” he said, “ had we not 
better undo the outward gate, and make the best of our 
way hence, even like a pair of sea-mews who make to- 
ward shelter of the rocks as the storm waxes hmh ? ” 

“ We must drive out the cows first,” said Mvsie, “ for a 
sin it were to spoil the poor widow’s cattle, both for her 
sake and the poor beasts’ own ; and 1 have no mind any 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 11 


one shall leave the tower in a hurry to follow us. Besides, 
you must have your horse, for you will need a fleet one 
ere all be done.” 

So saying, she locked and double-locked both the inward 
and outward door of the tower, proceeded to the cow- 
house, turned out the cattle, and giving the knight his own 
horse to lead, drove them before her out at the courtyard 
gate, intending to return for her own palfrey. But the 
noise attending the first operation caught the wakeful at- 
tention of Edward, who, starting to the bartizan, called to 
know what the matter was. 

Mysie answered with great readiness, that “she was 
driving out the cows, for that they would be spoiled for 
want of looking to.” 

“ I thank thee, kind mSiden,” said Edward — “ and yet,” 
he added, after a moment’s pause, “ what damsel is that 
thou hast with thee ?” 

Mysie was about to answer, when Sir Piercie Shafton, 
who apparently did not desire that the great work of his 
liberation should be executed without the interposition of 
his own ingenuity, exclaimed from beneath, “ I am she, O 
most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the 
milky mothers of the herd.” 

“ Hell and darkness ! ” exclaimed Edward, in a transport 
of fury and astonishment, “it is Piercie Shafton — what! 
treason ! treason ! — ho ! — Dan — Jasper — Martin — the vil- 
lain escapes ! ” 

“ To horse ! to horse ! ” cried Mysie, and in an instant 
mounted behind the knight, who was already in the sad- 
dle. 

Edward caught up a cross-bow, and let fly a bolt, which 
whistled so near Mysie’s ear, that she called to her com- 
panion — “ Spur — spur — Sir Knight ! the next will not miss 
us. Had it been Halbert instead of Edward who bent that 
bow, we had been dead.” 

The knight pressed his horse, which dashed past the 
cows, and down the knoll on which the tower was situated. 
Then taking the road down the valley, the gallant animal, 
reckless of its double burden, soon conveyed them out of 
hearing of the tumult and alarm with which their depart- 
ure filled the Tower of Glendearg. 

Thus it strangely happened, that two men were flying in 
different directions at the same time, each accused of be- 
ing the other’s murderer. 


3 I2 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH. 

Sure he cannot 

Be so unmanly as to leave me here ; 

If he do, maids will not so easily 
Trust men again. 

The Two Noble Kinsmen. 

The knight continued to keep the good horse at a pace 
as quick as the road permitted, until they had cleared the 
valley of Glendearg, and entered upon the broad dale of 
the Tweed, which now rolled before them in crystal 
beauty, displaying on its opposite bank the huge gray 
Monastery of Saint Mary’s, whose towers and pinnacles 
were scarce yet touched by the newly-risen sun, so deeply 
the edifice lies shrouded under the mountains which rise 
to the southward. 

Turning to the left, the knight continued his road down 
to the northern bank of the river, until they arrived nearly 
opposite to the weir, or dam-dike, where Father Philip 
concluded his extraordinary aquatic excursion. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, whose brain seldom admitted more 
than one idea at a time, had hitherto pushed forward with- 
out very distinctly considering where he was going. But 
the sight of the Monastery so near to him, reminded him 
that he was still on dangerous ground, and that he must 
necessarily provide for his safety by choosing some settled 
plan of escape. The situation of his guide and deliverer 
also occurred to him, for he was far from being either sel- 
fish or ungrateful. He listened, and discovered that the 
Miller’s daughter was sobbing and weeping bitterly as 
she rested her head on his shoulder. 

“What ails thee,” he said, “ my generous Molinara ? — 
is there aught that Piercie Shafton can do which may 
show his gratitude to his deliverer ? ” Mysie pointed with 
her finger across the river, but ventured not to turn her 
eyes in that direction. “ Nay, but speak plain, most gen- 
erous damsel,” said the knight, who, for once, was puz- 
zled as much as his own elegance of speech was wont to 
puzzle others, “ for I swear to you that I comprehend 
naught by the extension of thy fair digit.” 

“ Yonder is my father’s house,” said Mysie, in a voice 
interrupted by the increased burst of her sorrow. 

“ And I was carrying thee discourteously to a distance 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 r 3 


from thy habitation?” said Shafton, imagining he had 
found out the source of her grief. “ Woe worth the hour 
that Piercie Shafton, in attention to his own safety, neg- 
lected the accommodation of any female, far less of his 
most beneficent iiberatrice ! Dismount, then, O lovely 
Molinara, unless thou wouldst rather that I should trans- 
port thee on horseback to the house of thy molendinary 
father, which, if thou sayest the word, I am prompt to do, 
defying all dangers which may arise to me personally, 
whether by monk or miller.” 

Mysie suppressed her sobs, and with considerable diffi- 
culty muttered her desire to alight, and take her fortune 
by herself. Sir Piercie Shafton, too devoted a squire of 
dames to consider the most lowly as exempted from a re- 
spectful attention, independent of the claims which the 
Millers maiden possessed over him, dismounted instantly 
from his horse, and received in his arms the poor girl, who 
still wept bitterly, and, when placed on the ground, 
seemed scarce able to support herself, or at least stiil 
clung, though, as it appeared, unconsciously, to the sup- 
port he had afforded. He carried her to a weeping birch- 
tree which grew on the greensward bank around which 
the road winded, and, placing her on the ground beneath 
it, exhorted her to compose herself. A strong touchr of 
natural feeling struggled with, and half overcame, his ac- 
quired affectation, while he said, “ Credit me, most gen- 
erous damsel, the service you have done to Piercie Shaf- 
ton he would have deemed too dearly bought, had he fore- 
seen it was to cost you these tears and singults. Show me 
the cause of your grief, and if I can do aught to remove 
it, believe that the rights you have acquired over me will 
make your commands sacred as those of an empress. 
Speak, then, fair Molinara, and command him whom fort- 
une hath rendered at once your debtor and your champion. 
What are your orders ? ” 

“ Only that you will fly and save yourself,” said Mysie, 
mustering up her utmost efforts to utter these few words. 

“Yet,” said the knight, “let me not leave you without 
some token of remembrance.” Mysie would have said 
there needed none, and most truly would she have spok- 
en, could she have spoken for weeping. “ Piercie Shafton 
is poor,” he continued, “ but let this chain testify he is 
not ungrateful to his deliverer.” 

He took from his neck the rich chain and medallion we 
have formerly mentioned, and put it into the powerless 


3H 


THE MONASTERY. 


hand of the poor maiden, who neither received nor re- 
jected it, but, occupied with more intense feelings, seemed 
scarce aware of what he was doing. 

“We shall meet again,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “at 
least I trust so ; meanwhile, weep no more, fair Molinara, 
an thou lovest me.” 

The phrase of conjuration was but used as an ordinary 
commonplace expression of the time, but bore a deeper 
sense to poor Mysie’s ear. She dried her tears ; and when 
the knight, in all kind and chivalrous courtesy, stooped to 
embrace her at their parting, she rose humbly up to re- 
ceive the proffered honor in a posture of more deference, 
and meekly and gratefully accepted the offered salute. 
Sir Piercie Shafton mounted his horse and began to ride 
off, but curiosity, or perhaps a stronger feeling, soon in- 
duced him to look back, when he beheld the Miller’s 
daughter standing still motionless on the spot where they 
had parted, her eyes turned after him, and the unheeded 
chain hanging from her hand. 

It was at this moment that a glimpse of the real state of 
Mysie’s affections, and of the motive from which she had 
acted in the whole matter, glanced on Sir Piercie Shaf- 
ton’s mind. The gallants of that age, disinterested, aspir- 
ing, and lofty-minded, even in their coxcombry, were 
strangers to those degrading and mischievous pursuits 
which are usually termed low amours. They did not 
“chase the humble maidens of the plain,” or degrade 
their own rank, to deprive rural innocence of peace and 
virtue. It followed, of course, that as conquests in this 
class were no part of their ambition, they were in most 
cases totally overlooked and unsuspected, left unim- 
proved, as a modern would call it, where, as on the pres- 
ent occasion, they were casually made. The companion 
of Astro ph'el, and flower of the tilt-yard of Feliciana, had 
no more idea that his graces and good parts could attach 
the love of Mysie Happer, than a first-rate beauty in the 
boxes dreams of the fatal wound which her charms may 
inflict on some attorney’s romantic apprentice in the pit. 
I suppose, in any ordinary case, the pride of rank and dis- 
tinction would have pronounced on the humble admirer 
the doom which Beau Fielding denounced against the 
whole female world, “Let them look and die;” but the 
obligations under which he lay to the enamored maiden, 
miller’s daughter as she w T as, precluded the possibility of 
Sir Piercie’s treating the matter en cavalier , and, much 


THE MONASTERY. 


3*5 

embarrassed, yet a little flattered at the same time, he rode 
back to try what could be done for the damsel's relief. 

The innate modesty of poor Mysie could not prevent 
her showing too obvious signs of joy at Sir Piercie Shaf- 
ton’s return. She was betrayed by the sparkle of the re- 
kindling eye, and a caress, which, however timidly bestowed, 
she could not help giving to the neck of the horse which 
brought back the beloved rider. 

. “ What farther can I do for you, kind Molinara ? ” said 
Sir Piercie Shafton, himself hesitating and blushing ; for, 
to the grace of Queen Bess’s age be it spoken, her courtiers 
wore more iron on their breasts than brass on their fore- 
heads, and even amid their vanities preserved still the de- 
caying spirit of chivalry, which inspired of yore the very 
gentle Knight of Chaucer, 

Who in his port was modest as a maid. 

Mysie blushed deeply, with her eyes fixed on the ground, 
and Sir Piercie proceeded in the same tone of embarrassed 
kindness. “ Are you afraid to return home alone, my kind 
Molinara ? — would you that I should accompany you ? ” 

“ Alas ! ” said Mysie, looking up, and her cheek chang- 
ing from scarlet to pale, “I have no home left.” 

“ How ! no home ! ” said Shafton ; “ says my generous 
Molinara she hath no home, when yonder stands the house 
of her father, and but a crystal stream between ? ” 

“ Alas ! ” answered the Miller’s maiden, “ I have no long- 
er either home or father. He is a devoted servant to 
the Abbey— I have offended the Abbot, and if I return 
home my father will kill me.” 

“ He dare not injure thee, by Heaven! ’’said Sir Piercie ; 
“I swear to thee by my honor and knighthood, that the 
forces of my cousin of Northumberland shall lay the Mon- 
astery so flat that a horse shall not stumble as he rides 
over it, if they should dare to injure a hair of your head ! 
Therefore be hopeful and content, kind Mysinda, and 
know you have obliged one who can and will avenge the 
slightest wrong offered to you.” 

He sprung from his horse as he spoke, and in the anima- 
tion of his argument, grasped the willing hand of Mysie 
(or Mysinda, as he had' now christened her). He gazed 
too upon full black eyes, fixed upon his own with an ex- 
pression which, however subdued by maidenly shame, it 
was impossible to mistake, on cheeks where something like 
hope began to restore the natural color, and on two lips 


316 


THE MONASTERY. 


which, like double rosebuds, were kept a little apart by 
expectation, and showed within a line of teeth as white as 
pearl. All this was dangerous to look upon, and Sir Piercie 
Shafton, after repeating with less and less force his re- 
quest that the fair Mysinda would allow him to carry her 
to her father’s, ended by asking the fair Mysinda to go 
along with him — “ At least,” he added, “ until I shall be 
able to conduct you to a place of safety.” 

Mysie Happer made no answer ; but blushing scarlet be- 
twixt joy and shame, mutely expressed her willingness to 
accompany the Southron Knight, by knitting her bundle 
closer, and preparing to resume her seat en croupe. “ And 
what is your pleasure that I should do with this?” she 
said, holding up the chain as if she had been for the first 
time aware that it was in her hand. 

“Keep it, fairest Mysinda, for my sake,” said the Knight. 

“Not so, sir,” answered Mysie, gravely; “the maidens 
of my country take no such gifts from their superiors, and 
I need no token to remind me of this morning.” 

Most earnestly and courteously did the knight urge her 
acceptance of the proposed guerdon, but on this point 
Mysie was resolute ; feeling, perhaps, that to accept of any- 
thing bearing the appearance of reward, would be to place 
the service she had rendered him on a mercenary footing. 
In short, she would only agree to conceal the chain, lest 
it might prove the means of detecting the owner, until Sir 
Piercie should be placed in perfect safety. 

They mounted and resumed their journey, of which 
Mysie, as bold and sharp-witted in some points as she was 
simple and susceptible in others, now took in some degree 
the direction, having only inquired its general destination, 
and learned that Sir Piercie Shafton desired to go to Edin- 
burgh, where he hoped to find friends and protection. 
Possessed of this information, Mysie availed herself of her 
local knowledge to get as soon as possible out of the 
bounds of the Halidome, and into those of a temporal 
baron, supposed to be addicted to the reformed doctrines, 
and upon whose limits, at least, she thought their pur- 
suers would not attempt to hazard any violence. She was 
not indeed very apprehensive of a pursuit, reckoning with 
some confidence that the inhabitants of the Tower of 
Glendearg would find it a matter of difficulty to surmount 
the obstacles arising from their own bolts and bars, with 
which she had carefully secured them before setting forth 
on the retreat. 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 J 7 


They journeyed on, therefore, in tolerable security, and 
Sir Piercie Shafton found leisure to amuse the time in 
high-flown speeches and long anecdotes of the court of 
Feliciana, to which Mysie bent an ear not a whit less atten- 
tive, that she did not understand one word out of three 
which was uttered by her fellow-traveller. She listened, 
however, and admired upon trust, as many a wise man has 
been contented to treat the conversation of a handsome 
but silly mistress. As for Sir Piercie, he was in his ele- 
ment ; and, well assured of the interest and full appro- 
bation of his auditor, he went on spouting Euphuism of 
more than usual obscurity, and at more than usual length. 
Thus passed the morning, and noon brought them within 
sight of a winding stream on the side of which arose an 
ancient baronial castle, surrounded by some large trees. 
At a small distance from the gate of the mansion, ex- 
tended, as in those days was usual, a straggling hamlet, 
having a church in the centre. 

“ There are two hostelries in this Kirk-town," said 
Mysie, “ but the worst is best for our purpose ; for it 
stands apart from the bther houses, and I ken the man 
weel, for he has dealt with my father for malt." 

This causa scientice , , to use a lawyer’s phrase, was ill- 
chosen for Mysie’s purpose ; for Sir Piercie Shafton had, 
by dint of his own loquacity, been talking himself all this 
while into a high esteem for his fellow-traveller, and, 
pleased with the gracious reception which she afforded to 
his powers of conversation, had well-nigh forgotten that 
she was not herself one of those high-born beauties of 
whom he was recounting so many stories, when this un- 
lucky speech at once placed the most disadvantageous 
circumstances attending her lineage under his immediate 
recollection. He said nothing, however. What indeed 
could he say ? Nothing was so natural as that a miller’s 
daughter should be acquainted with publicans who dealt 
with her father for malt, and all that was to be wondered 
at was the concurrence of events which had rendered such 
a female the companion and guide of Sir Piercie Shafton 
of Wilverton, kinsman of the great Earl of Northumber- 
land, whom princes and sovereigns themselves termed 
cousin, because of the Piercie blood.* He felt the dis- 
grace of strolling through the country with a miller’s 

* Froissart tells us somewhere (the readers of romances are indifferent to 
accurate reference) that the King of France called one of the Piercie’ s 
cousin, because of the blood of Northumberland. 


THE MONASTERY. 


318 

maiden on the crupper behind him, and was even ungrate- 
ful enough to feel some emotions of shame, when he 
halted his horse at the door of the little inn. 

But the alert intelligence of Mysie Happer spared him 
farther sense of derogation, by instantly springing from 
his horse, and cramming the ears of mine host, who came 
out with his mouth agape to receive a guest of the knight’s 
appearance, with an imagined tale, in which circumstance 
on circumstance were huddled so fast, as to astonish Sir 
Piercie Shafton, whose own invention was none of the 
most brilliant. She explained to the publican that this 
was a great English knight travelling from the Monastery 
to the Court of Scotland, after having paid his vows to 
Saint Mary, and that she had been directed to conduct him 
so far on the road ; and that Ball, her palfrey, had fallen 
by the way, because he had been overwrought with carry- 
ing home the last melder of meal to the portioner ofLang- 
hope ; and that she had turned in Ball to graze in the 
Tasker’s Park near Cripplecross, for he had stood as still 
as Lot’s wife with very weariness ; and that the knight had 
courteously insisted she should ride behind him, and that 
she had brought him to her kind friend’s hostelry rather 
than to proud Peter Peddie’s, who got his malt at the 
Mellerstane mills ; and that he must get the best that the 
house afforded, and that he must get it ready in a moment 
of time, and that she was ready to help in the kitchen. 

All this ran glibly off the tongue without pausing on the 
part of Mysie Happer, or doubt on that of the landlord. The 
guest’s horse was conducted to the stable, and he himself 
installed in the cleanest corner and best seat which the place 
afforded. Mysie, ever active and officious, was at once en- 
gaged in preparing food, in spreading the table, and in 
making all the better arrangements which her experience 
could suggest, for the honor and comfort of her compan- 
ion. He would fain have resisted this ; for while it was 
impossible not to be gratified with the eager and alert 
kindness which was so active in his service, he felt an un- 
definable pain in seeing Mysinda engaged in these menial 
services, and discharging them, moreover, as one to whom 
they were but too familiar. Yet this jarring feeling was 
mixed with, and perhaps balanced by, the extreme grace 
with which the neat-handed maiden executed these tasks, 
however mean in themselves, and gave to the wretched 
corner of a miserable inn of the period, the air of a bower, 
in which an enamored fairy, or at least a shepherdess of 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 J 9 

Arcadia, was displaying, with unavailing solicitude, her 
designs on the heart of some knight, destined by fortune 
to higher thoughts, and a more splendid union. 

The lightness and grace with which Mysie covered the 
little round table with a snow-white cloth, and arranged 
upon it the hastily-roasted capon, with its accompanying 
stoup of Bordeaux, were but plebeian graces in them- 
selves ; but yet there were very flattering ideas excited 
by each glance. She was so very well made, agile at 
once and graceful, with her hand and arm as white as 
snow, and her face in which a smile contended with a 
blush, and her eyes which looked ever at Shafton when 
he looked elsewhere, and were dropped at once when they 
encountered his, that she was irresistible! In fine, the 
affectionate delicacy of her whole demeanor, joined to the 
promptitude and boldness she had so lately evinced, 
tended to ennoble the services she had rendered, as if some, 

sweet engaging Grace 

Put on sflme clothes to come abroad, 

And took a waiter’s place. 

But, on the other hand, came the damning reflection, 
that these duties were not taught her by Love, to serve the 
beloved only, but arose from the ordinary and natural 
habits of a miller’s daughter, accustomed, doubtless, to 
render the same service to every wealthier churl who fre- 
quented her father’s mill. This stopped the mouth of 
vanity, and of the love which vanity had been hatching, as 
effectually as a peck of literal flour would have done. 

Amidst this variety of emotions. Sir Piercie Shafton for- 
got not to ask the object of them to sit down and partake 
the good cheer which she had been so anxious to provide 
and to place in order. He expected that this invitation 
would have been bashfully, perhaps, but certainly most 
thankfully, accepted ; but he was partly flattered, and 
partly piqued, by the mixture of deference and resolution 
with "which. Mysie declined his invitation. Immediately 
after, she vanished from the apartment, leaving the Eu- 
phuist to consider whether he was most gratified or dis- 
pleased by her disappearance. 

In fact, this was a point on which he would have found 
it difficult to make up his mind, had there been any neces- 
sity for it. As there was none, he drank a few cups of 
claret, and sang (to himself) a strophe or two of the can- 
zonettes of the divine Astrophel, But in spite both of 


3 20 


THE MONASTERY \ 


wine and of Sir Philip Sidney, the connection in which 
he now stood, and that whicli he was in future to hold, 
with the lovely Molinara or Mysinda, as he had been 
pleased to denominate Mysie Happer, recurred to his 
mind. The fashion of the times (as we have already 
noticed) fortunately coincided with his own natural gener- 
osity of disposition, which indeed amounted almost to ex- 
travagance, in prohibiting as a deadly sin, alike against 
gallantry, chivalry, and morality, his rewarding the good 
offices he had received from this poor maiden, by abusing 
any of the advantages which her confidence in his honor 
had afforded. To do Sir Piercie justice, it was an idea 
which never entered into his head ; and he would proba- 
bly have dealt the most scientific imbroccata , stoccata , or 
punto-reverso , which the school of Vincent Saviola had 
taught him, to any man who had dared to suggest to him 
such selfish and ungrateful meanness. On the other hand, 
he was a man and foresaw various circumstances which 
might render their journey together in this intimate fash- 
ion a scandal and a snare. Moreover he was a coxcomb 
and a courtier, and felt there was something ridiculous in 
travelling the land with a miller’s daughter behind his sad- 
dle, giving rise to suspicions not very creditable to either, 
and to ludicrous constructions, so far as he himself was 
concerned. 

“ I would,” he said, half aloud, “ that if such might be 
done without harm or discredit to the too-ambitious, yet 
too-well-distinguished Molinara, she and I were fairly sev- 
ered, and bound on our different courses ; even as we see 
the goodly vessel bound for the distant seas hoist sails and 
bear away into the deep, while the humble fly-boat carries 
to shore those friends, who, with wounded hearts and 
watery eyes, have committed to their higher destinies the 
more daring adventurers by whom the fair frigate is 
manned.” 

He had scarce uttered the wish when it was gratified ; 
for the host entered to say that his worshipful knight- 
hood’s horse was ready to be brought forth as he had de- 
sired ; and on his inquiry for “the — the damsel — that is — 
the young woman ” 

“Mysie Happer,” said the landlord, “ has returned to 
her father’s ; but she bade me say, you could not miss the 
road for Edinburgh, in respect it was neither far away nor 
foul gate.” 

It is seldom we are exactly blessed with the precise ful- 


THE MONASTERY. 


32 1 


filment of our wishes at the moment when we utter them ; 
perhaps, because Heaven wisely withholds what, if granted, 
would be often received with ingratitude. So at least it 
chanced in the present instance ; for when mine host said 
that Mysie was returned homeward, the knight was tempt- 
ed to reply, with an ejaculation of surprise and vexation, 
and a hasty demand, whither and when she had departed ? 
The first emotions his prudence suppressed, the second 
found utterance. 

“Where is she gane ? ” said the host, gazing on him, 
and repeating his question — “She is gane ham e to her 
father’s, it is like -and she gaed just when she gave orders 
about your worship’s horse, and saw it well fed (she might 
have trusted me, but millers and millers’ kin think a’body 
as thief-like as themselves), an’ she’s three miles on the 
gate by this time.” 

“ Is she gone, then ? ” muttered Sir Piercie, making two 
or three hasty strides through the narrow apartment — “ Is 
she gone ? — Well, then, let her go. She could have had 
but disgrace by abiding by me, and I little credit by her 
society. That I should have thought there was such diffi- 
culty in shaking her off ! — I warrant she is by this time, 
laughing with Some clown she has encountered ; and my 
rich chain will prove a good dowry. — And ought it not to 
prove so ? and has she not deserved it, were it ten times 
more valuable ? — Piercie Shafton ! Piercie Shafton ! dost 
thou grudge thy deliverer the guerdon she hath so dearly 
won ? The selfish air of this northern land hath infected 
thee, Piercie Shafton ! and blighted the blossoms of thy 
generosity, even as it is said to shrivel the flowers of the 
mulberry. — Yet I thought,” he added, after a moment’s 
pause, “that she would not so easily and voluntarily have 
parted from me. But it skills not thinking, of it. — Cast 
my reckoning, mine host, and let your groom lead forth 
my nag.” 

The good host seemed also to have some mental point 
to discuss, for he answered not instantly, debating perhaps 
whether his conscience would bear a double charge for the 
same guests. Apparently his conscience replied in the 
negative, though not without hesitation, for he at length 
replied — “It’s daffing to lee ; it winna deny that the law- 
ing is clean paid. Ne’ertheless, if your worshipful knight- 
hood pleases to give aught for increase of trouble ” 

“ How ! ” said the knight ; “ the reckoning paid ? and 
by whom, I pray you ? ” 

21 


3 22 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ E’en by Mysie Happer, if truth maun be spoken, as 1 
said before,” answered the honest landlord, with as many 
compunctious visitings for telling the verity as another 
might have felt for making a lie in the circumstances — - 
“ And out of the moneys supplied for your honor’s journey 
by the Abbot, as she tauld to me. And laith were I to sur- 
charge any gentleman that darkens my doors.” fie added 
in the confidence of honesty which his frank avowal en- 
titled him to entertain, “Nevertheless, as I said before, if 
it pleases your knighthood of free good-will to consider 
extraordinary trouble” 

The knight cut short his argument, by throwing the 
landlord a rose-noble, which probably doubled the value 
of a Scottish reckoning, though it would have defrayed 
but a half one at the Three Cranes or the Vintry. The 
bounty so much delighted mine host, that he ran to fill 
the stirrup-cup (for which no charge was ever made) from 
a butt yet charier than that which he had pierced for the 
former stoup. The knight paced slowly to horse, partook 
of his courtesy, and thanked- him with the stiff condescen- 
sion of the court of Elizabeth ; then mounted and followed 
the northern path, which was pointed out as the nearest 
to Edinburgh, and which, though very unlike a modern 
highway, bore yet so distinct a resemblance to a public and 
frequented road as not to be easily mistaken. 

“ I shall not need her guidance it seems,” said he to 
himself, as he rode slowly onward ; “ and I suppose that 
was one reason of her abrupt departure, so different from 
what one might have expected. — Well, I am well rid of 
her. Do we not pray to be liberated from temptation ? 
Yet that she should have erred so much in estimation of 
her own situation and mine, as to think of defraying the 
reckoning ! I would I saw her once more, but to explain 
to her the solecism of which her inexperience hath ren- 
dered her guilty. And I fear,” he added, as he emerged 
from some straggling trees, and looked out upon a wild 
moorish country, composed of a succession of swelling 
lumpish hills, “ I fear I shall soon want the aid of this 
Ariadne, who might afford me a clew through the recesses 
of yonder mountainous labyrinth.” 

As the Knight thus communed with himself, his attention 
was caught by the sound of a horse’s footsteps ; and a lad, 
mounted on a little gray Scottish nag, about fourteen hands 
high, coming along a path which led from behind the trees, 
joined him on the high-road, if it could be termed such. 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 2 3 


The dress of the lad was completely in village fashion, 
yet neat and handsome in appearance. He had a jerkin 
of gray cloth slashed and trimmed, with black hose of the 
same, with deer-skin rullions, or sandals, and handsome 
silver spurs. A cloak of a dark mulberry color was closely 
drawn round the upper part of his person, and the cape in 
part muffled his face, which was also obscured by his bon- 
net of black velvet cloth, and its little plume of feathers. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, fond of society, desirous also to have 
a guide, and, moreover, prepossessed in favor of so hand- 
some a youth, failed not to ask him whence he came, and 
whether he was going ? The youth looked another way, 
as he answered that he was going to Edinburgh, “ to seek 
service in some nobleman’s family.” 

“I fear me you have run away from your last master,” 
said Sir Piercie, “since you dare not look me in the face 
while you answer my question.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I have not,” answered the lad, bashfully, 
while, as if with reluctance, he turned round his face, and 
instantly withdrew it. It was a glance, but the discovery 
was complete. There was no mistaking the dark full eye, 
the cheek in which much embarrassment could not alto- 
gether disguise an expression of comic humor, and the 
whole figure at once betrayed, under her metamorphosis, 
the Maid of the Mill. The recognition was joyful, and 
Sir Piercie Shafton was too much pleased to have regained 
his companion to remember the very good reasons which 
had consoled him for losing her. 

To his questions respecting her dress, she answered, that 
she had obtained it in the Kirktown from a friend ; it was 
the holiday suit of a son of hers, who had taken the field 
with his liege lord, the baron of the land. She had bor- 
rowed the suit under pretence she meant to play in some 
mumming or rural masquerade. She had left, she said, 
her own apparel in exchange, which was better worth ten 
crowns than this was worth four. 

“And the nag, my ingenious Molinara,” said Sir Piercie, 
“ whence comes the nag ?” 

“ I borrowed him from our host at the Gled’s Nest,” she 
replied; and added, half stifling a laugh, “he has sent to 
get, instead of it, our Ball, which I left in the Tasker’s 
Park at Cripplecross. He will be lucky if he find it there.” 

“ But then the poor man will lose his horse, most argute 
Mysinda,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, whose English notions 
of property w T ere a little startled at a mode of acquisition 


3 2 4 


THE MONA STER Y. 


more congenial to the ideas of a miller’s daughter (and he 
a Border miller to boot) than with those of an English 
person of quality. 

“And if he does lose his horse,” said Mysie, laughing, 
“surely he is not the first man on the marches who has 
had such a mischance. But he will be no loser, for I war- 
rant he will stop the value out of moneys which he has 
owed my father this many a day.” 

“But then your father will be the loser,” objected yet 
again the pertinacious uprightness of Sir Piercie Shafton. 

“What signifies it now to talk of my father?” said the 
damsel, pettishly ; then instantly changing to a tone of 
deep feeling, she added, “ My father has this day lost that 
which will make him hold light the loss of all the gear he 
has left.” 

Struck with the accents of remorseful sorrow in which 
his companion uttered these few words, the English knight 
felt himself bound both in honor and conscience to expostu- 
late with her as strongly as he could, on the risk of the step 
which she had now taken, and on the propriety of her re- 
turning to her father’s house. The matter of his discourse, 
though adorned with many unnecessary flourishes, was 
honorable both to his head and heart. 

The Maid of the Mill listened to his flowing periods with 
her head sunk on her bosom as she rode, like one in deep 
thought or deeper sorrow. When he had finished, she 
raised up her countenance, looking full on the knight, and 
replied with great firmness — “If you are weary of my com- 
pany, Sir Piercie Shafton, you have but to say so, and the 
Miller’s daughter will be no farther cumber to you. And 
do not think I will be a burden to you, if we travel to- 
gether to Edinburgh ; I have wit enough and pride enough 
to be a willing burden to no man. But if you reject not 
my company at present, and fear not it will be burden- 
some to you hereafter, speak no more to me of returning 
back. All that you can say to me I have said to myself ; 
and that I am now here, is a sign that I have said it to no 
purpose. Let this subject, therefore, be for ever ended 
betwixt us. I have already, in some small fashion, been 
useful to you, and the time may come I may be more so ; 
for this is not your land of England, where men say jus- 
tice is done with little fear or favor to great and to small ; 
but it is a land where men do by the strong hand, and de- 
fend by the ready wit, and I know better than you the 
perils you are exposed to.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


325 


Sir Piercie Shafton was somewhat mortified to find that 
the damsel conceived her presence useful to him as a pro- 
tectress as well as guide, and said something of seeking 
protection from nought save his own arm and his good 
sword. Mysie answered very quietly that she nothing 
daunted his bravery; but it was that very quality of 
bravery which was most likely to involve him in danger. 
Sir Piercie Shafton, whose head never kept very long in 
any continued train of thinking, acquiesced without much 
reply, resolving in his own mind that the maiden only used 
this apology to disguise her real motive, of affection to 
his person. The romance of the situation flattered his 
vanity and elevated his imagination, as placing him in the 
situation of one of those romantic heroes of whom he had 
read the histories, where similar transformations made a 
distinguished figure. 

He took many a sidelong glance at his page, whose hab- 
its of country sport and country exercise had rendered her 
quite adequate to sustain the character she had assumed. 
She managed the little nag with dexterity, and even with 
grace ; nor did anything appear that could have betrayed 
her disguise, except when a bashful consciousness of her 
companion’s eye being fixed on her, gave her an appear- 
ance of temporary embarrassment, which greatly added to 
her beauty. 

The couple rode forward as in the morning, pleased with 
themselves and with each other, until they arrived at the 
village where they were to repose for the night, and where 
all the inhabitants of the little inn, both male and female, 
joined in extolling the good grace and handsome counte- 
nance of the English knight, and the uncommon beauty 
of his youthful attendant. 

It was here that Mysie Happer first made Sir Piercie 
Shafton sensible of the reserved manner in which she pro- 
posed to live with him. She announced him as her master, 
and, waiting upon him with the reverent demeanor of an 
actual domestic, permitted not the least approach to famil- 
iarity, not even such as the knight might with the utmost 
innocence have ventured upon. For example, Sir Piercie, 
who, as we know, was a great connoisseur in dress, was 
detailing to her the advantageous change which he pro- 
posed to make in her attire as soon as they should reach 
Edinburgh, by arraying her in his own colors of pink 
and carnation. Mysie Happer listened with great com- 
placency to the unction with which he dilated upon welts, 


3 26 


THE MONASTERY. 


laces, slashes, and trimmings, until, carried away by the 
enthusiasm with which he was asserting the superiority 
of the falling band over the Spanish ruff, he approached 
his hand, in the way of illustration, toward the collar of his 
page’s doublet. She instantly stepped back, and gravely 
reminded him that she was alone and under his protection. 

“ You cannot but remember the cause which has 
brought me hefe,” she continued; “make the least ap- 
proach to any familiarity which you would not offer to 
a princess surrounded by her court, and you have seen 
the last of the Miller’s daughter — She will vanish as the 
chaff disappears from the shieling-hill* when the west wind 
blows.” 

“ I do protest, fair Molinara,” said Sir Piercie Shafton — 
but the fair Molinara had disappeared before his protest 
could be uttered. “A most singular wench,” said he to 
himself ; “and by this hand, as discreet as she is fair-feat- 
ured — Certes, shame it were to offer her scathe or dis- 
honor ! She makes similes too, though somewhat savor- 
ing of her condition. Had she but read Euphues, and 
forgotten that accursed mill and shieling-hill, it is my 
thought that her converse would be broidered with as 
many and as choice pearls of compliment, as that of the 
most rhetorical lady in the court of Feliciana. I trust she 
means to return to bear me company.” 

But that was no part of Mysie’s prudential scheme. It 
was then drawing to dusk, and he saw her not again until 
the next morning, when the horses were brought to the 
door that they might prosecute their journey. 

But our story here necessarily leaves the English knight 
and his page to return to the Tower of Glendearg. 


CHAPTER THIRTIETH. 

You call it an ill angel — it may be so ; 

But sure I am, among the ranks which fell, 

’Tis the first fiend e’er counsell’d man to rise, 

And win the bliss the sprite himself had forfeited. 

Old Play. 

We must resume our narrative at the period when Mary 
Avenel was conveyed to the apartment which had been 
formerly occupied by the two Glendinnings, and when her 

* The place where corn was winnowed, while that operation was per- 
formed by the hand, was called in Scotland the Shieling-hill. 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 2 7 


faithful attendant, Tibbie, had exhausted herself in useless 
attempts to xompose.and to comfort her. Father Eustace 
also dealt forth with well-meant kindness those apothegms 
and dogmata of consolation which friendship almost always 
offers to grief, though they are uniformly offered in vain. 
She was at length left to indulge in the desolation of her 
own sorrowful feelings. She felt as those who, loving for 
the first time, have lost what they loved, before time and 
repeated calamity have taught them that every loss is to a 
certain extent reparable or endurable. 

Such grief may be conceived better than it can be de- 
scribed, as is well known to those who have experienced 
it. But Mary Avenel had been taught by the peculiarity 
of her situation, to regard herself as the Child of Destiny ; 
and the melancholy and reflecting turn of her disposition 
gave to her sorrows a depth and breadth peculiar to her 
character. The grave — and it was a bloody grave — had 
closed, as she believed, over the youth to whom she was 
secretly but most warmly attached ; the force and ardor 
of Halbert’s character bearing a singular correspondence 
to the energy of which her own was capable. Her sorrow- 
did not exhaust itself in sighs and tears, but when the first 
shock had passed away, concentrated itself with deep and 
steady meditation to collect and calculate, like a bankrupt 
debtor, the full amount of her loss. It seemed as if all 
that connected her with earth had vanished with this 
broken tie. She had never dared to anticipate the prob- 
ability of an ultimate union with Halbert, yet now his 
supposed fall seemed that of the only tree which was to 
shelter'her from the storm. She respected the more gentle 
character, and more peaceful attainments, of the younger 
Glendinning ; but it had not escaped her (what never in- 
deed escaped woman in such circumstances) that he was 
disposed to place himself in competition with what she, 
the daughter of a proud and w r arlike race, deemed the 
more manly qualities of his elder brother ; and there is no 
time when a woman does so little justice to the character 
of a surviving lover, as when comparing him with the pre- 
ferred rival of whom she has been recently deprived. 

The motherly, but coarse kindness of Dame Glendinning, 
and the doting fondness of her old domestic, seemed now 
the only kind feeling of which she formed the object ; and 
she could not but reflect how little these were to be com- 
pared with the devoted attachment of a high-souled youth, 
whom the least glance of her eye could command, as the 


328 


THE MONASTERY. 


high-mettled steed is governed by the bridle of the rider. 
It was when plunged among these desolating reflections, 
that Mary Avenel felt the void of mind, arising from the nar- 
row and bigoted ignorance in which Rome then educated 
the children of her church. Their whole religion was a 
ritual, and their prayers were the formal iteration of un- 
known words, which, in the hour of affliction, could yield 
but little consolation to those who from habit resorted to 
them. Unused to the practice of mental devotion, and of 
personal approach to the Divine presence by prayer, she 
could not help exclaiming in her distress, “ There is no aid 
for me on earth, and I know not how to ask it from Heaven ! ” 
As she spoke thus in an agony of sorrow, she cast her 
eyes into the apartment, and saw the mysterious Spirit, 
which waited upon the fortunes of her house, standing in 
the moonlight in the midst of the room. The same form, 
as the reader knows, had more than once offered itself to 
her sight ; and either her native boldness of mind, or some 
peculiarity attached to her from her birth, made her now 
look upon it without shrinking. But the White Lady of Av- 
enel was now more distinctly visible, and more closely pres- 
ent than she had ever before seemed to be, and Mary was 
appalled by her presence. She would, however, have spoken ; 
but there ran a tradition, that though others who had seen 
the White Lady had asked questions and received answers, 
yet those of the house of Avenel who had ventured to speak 
to her, had never long survived the colloquy. The figure, 
besides, as sitting up in her bed, Mary Avenel gazed on it 
intently, seemed by its gestures to caution her to keep si- 
lence, and at the same time to bespeak attention. 

The White Lady then seemed to press one of the planks 
of the floor with her foot, while in her usual low, melan- 
choly, and musical chant, she repeated the following 
verses : 

“Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living Dead, 

Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead Alive, 

Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid 

The Word, the Law, the Path, which thou dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. — Could spirits shed 
Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep, 

Showing the road which I shall never tread, 

Though my foot points it — Sleep, eternal sleep, 

Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot ! — 

But do not thou at human ills repine, 

Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot, 

For all the woes that wait frail Adam’s line — 

Stoop, then, and make it yours — I may not make it mine ! ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 2 9 


The phantom stooped toward the floor as she concluded, 
as if with the intention of laying her hand on the board 
on which she stood. But ere she had completed that gest- 
ure, her form became indistinct, was presently only like 
the shade of a fleecy cloud, which passed betwixt earth 
and the moon, and was soon altogether invisible. 

A strong impression of fear, the first which she had ex- 
perienced in her life to any agitating extent, seized upon 
the mind of Mary Avenel, and for a minute she felt a dis- 
position to faint. She repelled it, however, mustered her 
courage, and addressed herself to saints and angels, as her 
church recommended. Broken slumbers at, length stole 
on her exhausted mind and frame, and she slept until the 
dawn was about to arise, when she was awakened by the 
cry of “Treason ! treason ! follow, follow!” which arose 
in the tower, when it was found that Piercie Shafton had 
made his escape. 

Apprehensive of some new misfortune, Mary Avenel 
hastily arranged the dress which she had not laid aside, 
and, venturing to quit her chamber, learned from Tibb, 
who, with her gray hairs dishevelled like those of a sibyl, 
was flying from room to room, that the bloody Southron 
villain had made his escape, and that Halbert Glendinning, 
poor bairn, would sleep unrevenged and unquiet in his 
bloody grave. In the lower apartments the young men 
were roaring like thunder, and venting in oaths and ex- 
clamations against the fugitives the rage which they experi- 
enced at finding themselves locked up within the tower, 
and debarred from their vindictive pursuit by the wily pre- 
cautions of Mysie Happer. The authoritative voice of 
the Sub-Prior commanding silence was next heard ; upon 
which Mary Avenel, whose tone of feeling did not lead 
her to enter into counsel or society with the rest of the 
party, again retired to her solitary chamber. 

The rest of the family held counsel in the spence, Ed- 
ward almost beside himself with rage, and the Sub-Prior 
in no small degree offended at the effrontery of Mysie 
Happer in attempting such a scheme, as well as at the 
mingled boldness and dexterity with which it had been ex- 
ecuted. But neither surprise nor anger availed aught. 
The windows, well secured with iron bars for keeping 
assailants out, proved now as effectual for detaining the 
inhabitants within. The battlements were open, indeed ; 
but without ladder or ropes to act as a substitute for wings, 
there was no possibility of descending from them. They 


330 


THE MONASTERY. 


easily succeeded in alarming the inhabitants of the cot- 
tages beyond the precincts of the court ; but the men had 
been called in to strengthen the guard for the night, and 
only women and children remained, who could contribute 
nothing in the emergency except their useless exclama- 
tions of surprise, and there were no neighbors for miles 
around. Dame Elspeth, however, though drowned in tears, 
was not so unmindful of external affairs but that she could 
find voice enough to tell the women and children without 
to “leave their skirling, and look after the cows that she 
couldna get minded, what wi’ the awfu’ distraction of her 
mind, what wi’ that fause slut having locked them up in 
their ain tower as fast as if they had been in the Jeddart 
Tolbooth.” 

Meanwhile, the men, finding other modes of exit im- 
possible, unanimously concluded to force the doors with 
such tools as the house afforded for the purpose. These 
were not very proper for the occasion, and the strength of 
the doors was great. The interior one, formed of oak, oc- 
cupied them for three mortal hours, and there was little 
prospect of the iron door being forced in double the time. 

While they were engaged in thi^ ungrateful toil, Mary 
Avenel had with much less labor acquired exact knowl- 
edge of what the Spirit had intimated in her mystic rhyme. 
On examining the spot which the phantom had indicated by 
her gestures,- it was not difficult to discover that a board 
had been loosened, which might be raised at pleasure. On 
removing this piece of plank, Mary Avenel was astonished 
to find the Black Book, well remembered by her as her 
mother’s favorite study, of which she immediately took 
possession, with as much joy as her present situation ren- 
dered her capable of feeling. 

Ignorant in a great measure of its contents, Mary Avqnel 
had been taught from her infancy to hold this volume in 
sacred veneration. It is probable that the deceased Lady 
of Walter Avenel only postponed initiating her daughter 
into the mysteries of the Divine Word, until she should be 
better able to comprehend both the lessons which it 
taught, and the risk at which, in those times, they were 
studied. Death interposed, and removed her before the 
times became favorable to the reformers, and before her 
daughter was so far advanced in age as to be fit to receive 
religious instruction of this deep "import. But the affec- 
tionate mother had made preparations for the earthly work 
which she had most at heart. There were slips of paper 


THE MONASTERY. 


33i 


inserted in the volume, in which, by an appeal to, and a 
comparison of, various passages in holy writ, the errors 
and human inventions with which the Church of Rome 
had defaced the simple edifice of Christianity, as erected 
by its divine architect, were pointed out. These contro- 
versial topics were treated with a spirit of calmness and 
Christian charity, which might have been an example to 
the theologians of the period ; but they were clearly, fairly, 
and plainly argued, and supported by the necessary proofs 
and references. Other papers there were which had no 
reference whatever to polemics, but were the simple effu- 
sions of a devout mind communing with itself. Among 
these was one frequently used, as it seemed from the state 
of the manuscript, on which the mother of Mary had tran- 
scribed and placed together those affecting texts to which 
the heart has recourse in affliction, and which assure us at 
once of the sympathy and protection afforded to the chil- 
dren of *the promise. In Mary Avenel’s state of mind, these 
attracted her above all the other lessons, which, coming 
from a hand so dear, had reached her at a time so critical, 
and in a manner so touching. She read the affecting 
promise, “ I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,” and 
the consoling exhortation, “ Call upon me in the day of 
trouble, and I will deliver thee.” She read them, and her 
heart acquiesced in the conclusion, Surely this is the Word 
of God ! 

There are those to whom a sense of religion has come in 
storm and tempest ; there are those whom it has sum- 
moned amid scenes of revelry and idle vanity ; there are 
those, too, who have heard its “still small voice” amid 
rural leisure and placid contentment. But perhaps the 
knowledge which causeth not to err, is most frequently 
impressed upon the mind during seasons of affliction ; and 
tears are the softened showers which cause the seed of 
Heaven to spring and take root in the human breast. At 
least it was thus with Mary Avenel. She was insensible 
to the discordant noise which rang below, the elang of bars 
and the jarring symphony of the levers which they used to c 
force them, the measured shouts of the laboring inmates 
as they combined their strength for each heave, and gave 
time with their voices to the exertion of their arms, and 
their deeply muttered vows of revenge on the fugitives 
who had bequeathed them at their departure a task so toil- 
some and difficult. Not all this din, combined in hideous 
concert, and expressive of aught but peace, love, and for- 


33 2 


THE MONASTER Y. 


giveness, could divert Mary Avenel from the new course 
of study on which she had so singularly entered. “ The 
serenity of Heaven/’ she said, “is above me ; the sounds 
which are around are but those of earth and earthly pas- 
sion.” 

Meanwhile the noon was passed, and little impression 
was made on the iron grate, when they who labored at it 
received a sudden reinforcement by the unexpected arrival 
of Christie of the Clin thill. He came at the head of a 
small party, consisting of four horsemen, who bore in their 
caps the sprig of holly, which was the badge of Avenel. 

“What, ho ! my masters,” he said, “ I bring you a pris- 
oner.” 

“ You had better have brought us liberty,” said Dan of 
the Howlet-hirst. 

Christie looked at the state of affairs with great surprise. 
“ An I were to be hanged for it,” he said, “as I may for as 
little a matter, I could not forbear laughing at seeing men 
peeping through their own bars like so many rats in a rat- 
trap, and he with the beard behind, like the oldest rat in 
the cellar.” 

“Hush, thou unmannered knave,” said Edward, “it is 
the Sub-Prior ; and- this is neither time, place, nor com- 
pany for your ruffian jests.” 

“ What, ho ! is my young master malapert ? ” said Chris- 
tie ; “why, man, were he my own carnal father, instead of 
being father to half the w T orld, I would have my laugh out. 
And now it is over, I must assist you, I reckon, for you 
are setting very greenly about this gear — put the pinch 
nearer the staple, man, and hand me an iron crow through 
the grate, for that’s the fowl to fly away with a wicket on 
its shoulders. I have broken into as many grates as you 
have teeth in your young head — ay, and broke out of them 
too, as the captain of the Castle of Lochmaben knows full 
well.” 

Christie did not boast more skill than he really pos- 
sessed ; for,' applying their combined strength, under the 
direction of that experienced engineer, bolt and staple 
gave way before them, and in less than half-an-hour, the 
grate which had so long repelled their force stood open 
before them. 

“And now,” said Edward, “to horse, my mates, and 
pursue the villain Shafton ! ” 

“Halt, there,” said Christie of the Clinthill ; “pursue 
your guest, my master’s friend and my own ? — there go two 


THE MONASTERY. 


333 


words to that bargain. What the foul fiend would you 
pursue him for ? ” 

“ Let me pass,” said Edward vehemently, “ I will be staid 
by no man — the villain has murdered my brother ! ” 

“What says he ?” said Christie, turning to the others ; 
“ murdered ? who is murdered, and by whom ? ” 

“ The Englishman, Sir Piercie Shafton,” said Dan of the 
Howlet-hirst, “ has murdered young Halbert Glendinning 
yesterday morning, and we have all risen to the fray.” 

“ It is a bedlam business, I think,” said Christie. “ First 
I find you all locked up in your own tower, and next I am 
come to prevent you revenging a murder that was never 
committed.” 

“ I tell you,” said Edward, “ that my brother was slain, 
and buried yesterday morning by this false Englishman.” 

“And I tell you,” answered Christie, “that I saw him 
alive and well last night. I would I knew his trick of 
getting out of the grave ; most men find it more hard to 
break through a green sod than a grated door.” 

Everybody now paused, and looked on Christie in as- 
tonishment, until the Sub-Prior, who had hitherto avoided 
communication with him, came up and required earnestly 
to know whether he meant really to maintain thatTfalbert 
Glendinning lived. 

“ Father,” he said, with more respect than he usually 
showed to any one save his master, “ I confess I may some- 
times jest with those of your coat, but not with you ; be- 
cause, as you may partly recollect, I owe you a life. It is 
certain as the sun is in heaven that Halbert Glendinning 
supped at the house of my master the Baron of Avenel 
last night, and that he came thither in company with an 
old man, of whom more anon.” 

. “ And where is he now ? ” 

“The devil oniy can answer that question,” replied 
Christie, “for the devil has possessed the whole family I 
think. He took fright, the foolish lad, at something or 
other which our Baron did in his moody humor, and so he 
jumped into the lake and swam ashore like a wild duck. 
Robin of Redcastle spoiled a good gelding in chasing him 
this morning.” 

“And why did he chase the youth?” said the Sub- 
Prior ; “ what harm had he done ? ” 

“None that I know of,” said Christie; “but such was 
the Baron’s order, being in his mood, and all the world 
having gone mad, as I have said before.” 


334 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Whither away so fast, Edward ?” said the monk. 

“ To Corri-nan-shi^n, Father,” answered the youth. 
“ Martin and Dan, take pick-axe and mattock, and follow 
me if you be men ! ” 

“ Right,” said the monk, “and fail not to give us instant 
notice what you find.” 

“ If you find aught there like Halbert Glendinning,” said 
Christie, hallooing after Edward, “ I will be bound to eat 
him unsalted. — ’T*s a sight to see now how that fellow takes 
the bent ! — It is in the time of action men see what lads are 
made of. Halbert was aye skipping up and down like a 
roe, and his brother used to sit in the chimney-nook with 
his book and sic-like trash — But the lad was like a loaded 
hackbut, which will stand in the corner as quiet as an old 
crutch until ye draw the trigger, and then there is nothing 
but flash and smoke. — But here comes my prisoner ; and, 
setting other matters aside, I must pray a word with you, 
Sir Sub-Prior, respecting him. I came on before to treat 
about him, but I was interrupted with this fasherie.” 

As he spoke, two more of Avenel’s troopers rode into 
the courtyard, leading betwixt them a horse, on which, 
with his hands bound to his side, sat the reformed preach- 
er, Henry Warden. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST. 

At school I knew him a sharp-witted youth, 

Grave, thoughtful, and reserved among his mates, 

Turning the hours of sport and food to labor, 

Starving his body to inform his mind. 

Old Play. 

The Sub-Prior, at the Borderer’s request, had not failed 
to return to the tower, into which he was followed by 
Christie of the Clinthill, who, shutting the door of the 
apartment, drew near, and began his discourse with great 
confidence and familiarity. 

“My master,” he said, “sends me with his commenda- 
tions to you, Sir Sub-Prior, above all the community of 
Saint Mary’s, and more specially than even to the Abbot 
himself ; for though he be termed my lord, and so forth, 
all the world knows that you are the tongue of the trump.” 

“ If you have aught to say to me concerning the com- 


THE MONASTERY. 


335 


munity,” said the Sub-Prior, “ it were well you proceeded 
in it without farther delay. Time presses, and the fate of 
young Glendinning dwells on my mind.” 

“ I will be caution for him, body for body,” said Christie. 
“ I do protest to you, as sure as I am a living, man, so surely 
is he one.” 

“ Should I not tell his unhappy mother the joyful ti- 
dings?” said Father Eustace — “and yet better wait till 
they return from searching the grave. Well, Sir Jackman, 
your message to me from your master?” 

“ My lord and master,” said Christie, “hath good reason 
to believe that, from the information of certain back 
friends, whom he will reward at more leisure, your rever- 
end community hath been led to deem him ill attached to 
Holy Church, allied with heretics, and those who favor 
heresy, and a hungerer after the spoils of your Abbey.” 

“Be brief, good henchman,” said the Sub-Prior, “for 
the devil is ever most to be feared when he preacheth.” 

“ Briefly then — my master desires your friendship ; and 
to excuse himself from the maligner’s calumnies, he sends 
to your Abbot* that Henry Warden, whose sermons have 
turned the world upside down, to be dealt with as Holy 
Church directs, and as the Abbot’s pleasure may de- 
termine.” 

The Sub-Prior’s eyes sparkled at the intelligence ; for it 
had been accounted a matter of great importance that this 
man should be arrested, possessed, as he was known to be, 
of so much zeal and popularity, that scarcely the preaching 
of Knox himself had been more awakening to the people, 
and more formidable to the Church of Rome. 

In fact, that ancient system, which so well accommodated 
its doctrines to the wants and wishes of a barbarous age, 
had, since the art of printing, and the gradual diffusion of 
knowledge, lain floating like some huge leviathan, into 
which ten thousand reforming fishers were darting their 
harpoons. The Roman Church of Scotland, in particular, 
was at her last gasp, actually blowing blood and water, yet 
still with unremitted, though animal exertions, maintaining 
the conflict with the assailants, who on every side were 
plunging their weapons into her bulky body. In many 
large towns, the monasteries had been suppressed by the 
fury of the populace*; in other places, their possessions 
had been usurped by the power of the reformed nobles; 
but still the hierarchy made a part of the common law of 
the realm, and might claim both its property and its privi- 


33 6 


THE MONASTERY. 


leges wherever it had the means of asserting them. The 
community of Saint Mary’s of Kennaquhairwas considered 
as being particularly in this situation. They had retained 
undiminished their territorial power and influence ; and the 
great barons in the neighborhood, partly from their at- 
tachment to the party in the state who still upheld the old 
system of religion, partly because each grudged the share 
of the prey which the others must necessarily claim, had 
as yet abstained from despoiling the Halidome. The com- 
munity was also understood to be protected by the power- 
ful Earls £>{ Northumberland and Westmoreland, whose 
zealous attachment to the Catholic faith caused at a later 
period the great rebellion of the tenth of Elizabeth. 

Thus happily placed, it was supposed by the friends of 
the decaying cause of the Roman Catholic faith, that some 
determined example of courage and resolution, exercised 
where the franchises of the church were yet entire, and 
her jurisdiction undisputed, might awe the progress of the 
new opinions into activity ; and, protected by the laws 
which still existed, and by the favor of the sovereign, 
might be the means of securing the territory which Rome 
yet preserved in Scotland, and perhaps of recovering that 
which she had lost. 

The matter had been considered more than once by the 
northern Catholics of Scotland, and they had held commu- 
nication with those of the south. Father Eustace, devoted 
by his public and private vows, had caught the flame, and 
had eagerly advised that they should execute the doom of 
heresy on the first reformed preacher, or, according to his 
sense, on the first heretic of eminence, who should vent- 
ure within the precincts of the Halidome. A heart, natu- 
rally kind and noble, was, in this instance, as it has been 
in many more, deceived by its own generosity. Father 
Eustace would have been a bad administrator of the in- 
quisitorial power of Spain, where that power was omnipo- 
tent, and where judgment was exercised without danger to 
those who inflicted it. In such a situation his rigor might 
have relented in favor of the criminal, whom it was at his 
pleasure to crush or to place at freedom. But in Scotland, 
during this crisis, the case was entirely different. The 
question was, whether one of the spirituality dared, at the 
hazard of his own life, to step forward to assert and exer- 
cise the rights of the church. Was there 1 any who would 
venture to wield the thunder in her cause, or must it re- 
main like that in the hand of a painted Jupiter, the object 


THE MONASTERY. 


337 


of derision instead of terror ? The crisis was calculated to 
awake the soul of Eustace ; for it comprised the question, 
whether he dared, at all hazards to himself, to execute 
with stoical severity a measure which, according to the 
general opinion, was to be advantageous to the church, 
and, according to ancient law, and to his firm belief, was 
not only justifiable but meritorious. 

While such resolutions were agitated among the Catho- 
lics, chance placed a victim within their grasp. Henry 
Warden had, with the animation proper to the enthusiastic 
reformers of the age, transgressed, in the vehemence of 
his zeal, the bounds of the discretional liberty allowed to 
his sect so far, that it was thought the Queen’s per- 
sonal dignity was concerned in bringing him to justice. 
He fled from Edinburgh, with recommendations, however, 
from Lord James Stewart, afterward the celebrated Earl 
of Murray, to some of the Border chieftains of inferior 
rank, who were privately conjured to procure him safe 
passage into England. One of the principal persons to 
whom such recommendation was addressed, was Julian 
Avenel ; for as yet, and for a considerable time afterward, 
the correspondence and interest of Lord James lay rather 
with the subordinate leaders than with the chiefs of great 
power, and men of distinguished influence upon the Bor- 
der. Julian Avenel had intrigued without scruple with 
both parties — yet, bad as he was, he certainly would not 
have practised aught against the guest whom Lord James 
had recommended to his hospitality, had it not been for 
what he termed the preacher’s officious intermeddling in 
his family affairs. But when he had determined to make 
Warden rue the lecture he had read him, and the scene of 
public scandal which he had caused in his hall, Julian re- 
solved, with the constitutional shrewdness of his disposi- 
tion, to combine his vengeance with his interest. And 
therefore, instead of doing violence on the person of Henry 
Warden within his own castle, he determined to deliver 
him up to the Community of Saint Mary’s, and at once 
make them the instruments of his own revenge, and found 
a claim of personal recompense, either in money, or in a 
grant of Abbey lands at a low quit-rent, which last began 
now to be the established form in which the temporal no- 
bles plundered the spirituality. 

The Sub-Prior, therefore, of Saint Mary’s, unexpectedly 
saw the steadfast, active, and inflexible enemy of the 
church delivered into his hand, and felt himself called 


22 


33 » 


THE MONASTERY. 


upon to make good his promises to the friends of the 
Catholic faith, by quenching heresy in the blood of one of 
its most zealous professors. 

To the honor more of Father Eustace’s heart than of his 
consistency, the communication that Henry Warden was 
placed within his power, struck him with more sorrow than 
triumph ; but his next feelings were those of exultation. 
“ It is sad,” he said to himself, “to cause human suffering, 
it is awful to cause human blood to be spilled ; but the 
judge to whom the sword of Saint Paul, as well as the keys 
of Saint Peter, are confided, must not flinch from his task. 
Our weapon returns into our own bosom, if not wielded 
with a steady and unrelenting hand against the irreconcila- 
ble enemies of the Holy Church. Pereat iste ! It is the 
doom he has incurred, and were all the heretics in Scot- 
land armed and at his back, they should not prevent its 
being pronounced, and, if possible, enforced. Bring the 
heretic before me,” he said, issuing his commands aloud, 
and in a tone of authority. 

Henry Warden was led in, his hands still bound, but his 
feet at liberty. 

“ Clear the apartment,” said the Sub-Prior, “ of all but 
the necessary guard on the prisoner.” 

All retired except Christie of the Clinthill, who, having 
dismissed the inferior troopers whom he commanded, un- 
sheathed his sword, and placed himself beside the door, as 
if taking upon him the character of sentinel. 

The judge and the accused met face to face, and in that 
of both was enthroned the noble confidence of rectitude. 
The monk was about, at the utmost risk to himself and his 
community, to exercise what in his ignorance he conceived 
to be his duty. The preacher, actuated by a better-informed, 
yet not a more ardent zeal, was prompt to submit to exe- 
cution for God’s sake, and to seal, were it necessary, his 
mission with his blood. Placed at such a distance of time 
as better enables us to appreciate the tendency of the prin- 
ciples on which they severally acted, we cannot doubt to 
which the palm ought to be awarded. But the zeal of 
Father Eustace was as free from passion and personal views 
as if it had been exerted in a better cause. 

They approached each other, armed each and prepared 
for intellectual conflict, and each intently regarding his 
opponent, as if either hoped to spy out some defect, some 
chasm in the armor of his antagonist. As they gazed on 
each other, old recollections began to awake in either 


7 11 E HI OX A S 7 ER Y. 


339 


bosom, at the sight of features long unseen and much 
altered, but not forgotten. The brow of the Sub-Prior 
dismissed by degrees its frown of command, the look of 
calm yet stern defiance gradually vanished from that of 
Warden, and both lost for an instant that of gloomy 
solemnity. They had been ancient and intimate friends 
in youth at a foreign university, but had been long sepa- 
rated from each other ; and the change of name, which 
the preacher had adopted from motives of safety, and the 
monk from the common custom of the convent, had pre- 
vented the possibility of their hitherto recognizing each 
other in the opposite parts which they had been playing 
in the great polemical and political drama. But now the 
Sub- Prior exclaimed, “ Henry Wellwood !” and the preach- 
er replied, “ William Allan ! ” and, stirred by the old famil- 
iar names, and never-to-be-forgotten recollections of college 
studies and college intimacy, their hands were for a moment 
locked in each other. 

“ Remove his bonds,” said the Sub-Prior, and assisted 
Christie in performing that office with his own hands, al- 
though the prisoner scarcely would consent to be unbound, 
repeating with emphasis, that he rejoiced in the cause for 
which he suffered shame. When his hands were at liber- 
ty, however, he showed his sense of the kindness by again 
exchanging a grasp and a look of affection with the Sub- 
Prior. 

The salute was frank and generous on either side, yet it 
was but the friendly recognition and greeting which are 
wont to take place betwixt adverse champions, who do 
nothing in hate but all in honor. As each felt the pressure 
of the situation in which they stood, he quitted the grasp 
of the other’s hand, and fell back, confronting each other 
with looks more calm and sorrowful than expressive of any 
other passion. The Sub-Prior was the first to speak. 

“And is this, then, the end of that restless activity of 
mind, that bold and indefatigable love of truth that urged 
investigation to its utmost limits, and seemed to take 
heaven itself by storm — is this the termination of Well- 
wood’s career ? — And having known and loved him during 
the best years of our youth, do we meet in our old age as 
judge and criminal ?” 

“ Not as judge and criminal,” said Henry Warden, — 
for to avoid confusion we describe him by his later and 
best known name — “Not as judge and criminal do we 
meet, but as a misguided oppressor and his ready and de* 


340 


THE MONASTERY. 


voted victim. I, too, may ask, are these the harvest of the 
rich hopes excited by the classical learning, acute logical 
powers, and varied knowledge of William Allan, that he 
should sink to be the solitary drone of a cell, graced only 
above the swarm with the high commission of executing 
Roman malice on all who oppose Roman imposture ?” 

“Not to thee,” answered the Sub-Prior, “be assured — 
not unto thee, nor unto mortal man, will I render an ac- 
count of the power with which the Church may have in- 
vested me. It was granted but as a deposit for her welfare 
— for her welfare it shall at every risk be exercised, with- 
out fear and without favor.” 

“ I expected no less from your misguided zeal,” answered 
the preacher ; “ and in me have you met one on whom you 
may fearlessly exercise your authority, secure that his mind 
at least will defy your influence, as the snows of that Mont 
Blanc which we saw together, shrink not under the heat 
of the hottest summer sun.” 

“ I do believe thee,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I do believe 
that thine is indeed metal unmalleable by force. Let it 
yield then to persuasion. Let us debate these matters of 
faith, as we once were wont to conduct our scholastic dis- 
putes, when hours, nay, days, glided past in the mutual 
exercise of our intellectual powers. It may be thou may- 
est yet hear the voice of the shepherd, and return to the 
universal fold.” 

“ No, Allan,” replied the prisoner, “ this is no vain ques- 
tion, devised by dreaming scholiasts, on which they may 
whet their intellectual faculties until the very metal be 
wasted away. The errors which I combat are like those 
fiends which are only cast out by fasting and prayer. Alas ! 
not many wise, not many learned, are chosen ; the cottage 
and the hamlet shall in our days bear witness against the 
schools and their disciples. Thy very wisdom, which is 
foolishness, hath made thee, as the Greeks of old, hold as 
foolishness that which is the only true wisdom.” 

“This,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, “is the mere cant of 
ignorant enthusiasm, which appealeth from learning and 
from authority, from the sure guidance of that lamp which 
God hath afforded us in the Councils and in the Fathers 
of the Church, to a rash, self-willed, and arbitrary inter- 
pretation of the Scriptures, wrested according to the pri- 
vate opinion of each speculating heretic.” 

“ I disdain to reply to the charge,” replied Warden. 
“The question at issue between your Church and mine, ia 


THE MONASTERY. 


341 


whether we will be judged by the Holy Scriptures, or by 
the devices and decisions of men not less subject to error 
than ourselves, and who have defaced our holy religion 
with vain devices, reared up idols of stone and wood, in 
form of those, who, when they lived, were but sinful creat- 
ures, to share the worship due only to the Creator — estab- 
lished a toll-house betwixt heaven and hell, that profitable 
purgatory of which the Pope keeps the keys, like as an in- 
iquitous judge commutes punishment for bribes, and ”• 

“Siience, blasphemer,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, “or 
I will have thy blatant obloquy stopped with a gag ! ” 

“Ay/’ replied Warden, “such is the freedom of the 
Christian conference to which Rome’s priests so kindly in- 
vite us i — the gag — the rack — the axe — is the ratio ultima 
Roma. But know thou, mine ancient friend, that the 
character of thy former companion is not so changed by 
age, but chat he still dares to endure for the cause of truth 
all that thy proud hierarchy shall dare to inflict.” 

“Of that,” said the monk, “ I nothing doubt — Thou wert 
ever a lion to turn against the spear of the hunter, not a 
stag to be dismayed at the sound of his bugle.” — He walked 
through che room in silence. “Wellwood,” he said at 
length, *• we can no longer be friends. Our faith, our hope, 
our anchor on futurity, is no longer the same.” 

“ Deep is my sorrow that thou speakest truth. May God 
so judge me,” said the Reformer, “ as I would buy the con- 
version ox a soul like thine with my dearest heart’s blood.” 

“ To thee, and with better reason, do I return the wish,” 
replied the Sub-Prior ; “ it is such an arm as thine that 
6hould defend the bulwarks of the Church, and it is now 
directing the battering-ram against them, and rendering 
practicable the breach through which all that is greedy, 
and all that is base, and all that is mutable and hot-headed 
in this innovating age, already hope to advance to destruc- 
tion and to spoil. But since such is our fate, that we can 
no longer fight side by side as friends, let us at least act as 
generous enemies. You cannot have forgotten, 


* O gran bonti dei cavalieri antiqui ! 

Erano nemici, eran’ di fede diversa ! ’ — 

Although, perhaps,” he added, stopping short in his quo- 
tation, “ your new faith forbids you to reserve a place in 
your memory, even for what high poets have recorded of 
loyal faith and generous sentiment.” 


342 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ The faith of Buchanan,” replied the preacher, “the faith 
of Buchanan and of Beza, cannot be unfriendly to litera- 
ture. But the poet you have quoted affords strains fitter 
for a dissolute court than for a convent.” 

“ I might retort on your Theodore Beza,” said the Sub- 
Prior, smiling ; “ but I hate the judgment that, like the 
flesh fly, skims over whatever is sound, to detect and settle 
upon some spot which is tainted. But to the purpose. If 
I conduct thee or send thee a prisoner to Saint Mary’s, thou 
art to-night a tenant of the dungeon, to-morrow a burden 
to the gibbet-tree. If I were to let thee go hence at large, 
I were thereby wronging the Holy Church, and breaking 
mine own solemn vow. Other resolutions may be adopted 
in the capital, or better times may speedily ensue. Wilt 
thou remain a true prisoner upon thy parole, rescue or no 
rescue, as is the phrase among the warriors of this coun- 
try ? Wilt thou solemnly promise that thou wilt do so, and 
that at my summons thou wilt present thyself before the 
Abbot and Chapter of Saint Mary’s, and that thou wilt not 
stir from this house above a quarter of a mile in any di- 
rection ? Wilt thou, I say, engage me thy word for this ? 
and such is the sure trust which I repose in thy good faith, 
that thou shalt remain here unharmed and unsecured, a 
prisoner at large, subject only to appear before our court 
when called upon.” 

The preacher paused — “I am unwilling,” he said, “to 
fetter my native liberty by any self-adopted engagement. 
But I am already in your power, and you may bind me to 
my answer. By such promise, to abide within a certain 
limit, and to appear when called upon, I renounce not any 
liberty which I at present possess, and am free to exercise ; 
but, on the contrary, being in bonds, and at your mercy, I 
acquire thereby a liberty which I at present possess not. 
I will therefore accept of thy proffer, as what is courteously 
offered on thy part, and may be honorably accepted on 
mine.” 

“ Stay yet,” said the Sub-Prior, “one important part of 
thy engagement is forgotten — thou art farther to promise, 
that while thus left at liberty, thou wilt not preach or teach, 
directly or indirectly, any of those pestilent heresies by 
which so many souls have been in this our day won over 
from the kingdom of light to the kingdom of darkness.” 

“There we break off our treaty,” said Warden, firmly — 
“ Woe unto me if I preach not the Gospel !” 

The Sub-Prior’s countenance became clouded, and he 


THE MONASTERY '. 


343 


again paced the apartment, and muttered, “ A plague upon 
the self-willed fool ! ” then stopped short in his walk, and 
proceeded in his argument. — “Why, by thine own reason- 
ing, Henry, thy refusal here is but peevish obstinacy. It 
is in my power to place you where your preaching can reach 
no human ear ; in promising therefore to abstain from it, 
you grant nothing which you have in your power to re- 
fuse.” 

“ I know not that,” replied Henry Warden ; “thou may- 
est indeed cast me into a dungeon, but can I foretell that 
my Master hath not task-work for me to perform even in 
that dreary mansion ? The chains of Saints have, ere now, 
been the means of breaking the bonds of Satan. In a 
prison, holy Paul found the jailor whom he brought to be- 
lieve the word of salvation, he and all his house.” 

“Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, in a tone betwixt anger and 
scorn, “ if you match yourself with the blessed Apostle, it 
were time we had done — prepare to endure what thy folly, 
as well as thy heresy, deserves. Bind him, soldier.” 

With proud submission to his fate, and regarding the 
Sub-Prior with something which almost amounted to a 
smile of superiority, the preacher placed his arms so that 
the bonds could be again fastened round him. 

“ Spare me not,” he said to Christie ; for even that ruf- 
fian hesitated to draw the cord straitly. 

The Sub-Prior, meanwhile, looked at him from under 
his cowl, which he had drawn over his head, and partly 
over his face, as if he wished to shade his own emotions. 
They were those of a huntsman within point-blank shot of 
a noble stag, who is yet too much struck with his majesty 
of front and of antler to take aim at him. They were those 
of a fowler, who, levelling his gun at a magnificent eagle, 
is yet reluctant to use his advantage when he sees the noble 
sovereign of the birds pruning himself in proud defiance 
of whatever maybe attempted against him. The heart of 
the Sub-Prior (bigoted as he was) relented, and he doubted 
if he ought to purchase, by a rigorous discharge of what 
he deemed his duty, the remorse he might afterwards feel 
for the death of one so nobly independent in thought and 
character, the friend, besides, of his own happiest years, 
during which they had, side by side, striven in the noble 
race of knowledge, and indulged their intervals of repose 
in the lighter studies of classical and general letters. 

The Sub-Prior’s hand pressed his half-o’ershadowed 
cheek, and his eye, more completely obscured, was bent 


344 THE MONASTERY. 

on the ground, as if to hide the workings of his relenting 
nature. 

“ Were but Edward saved from the infection,” he thought 
to himsetf — “ Edward, whose eager and enthusiastic mind 
presses forward in the chase of all that hath even the 
shadow of knowledge, I might trust this enthusiast with 
the women, after due caution to them that they cannot, 
without guilt, attend to his reveries.” 

As the Sub-Prior revolved these thoughts, and delayed 
the definite order which was to determine the fate of the 
prisoner, a sudden noise at the entrance of the tower di- 
verted his attention for an instant, and, his cheek and brow 
inflamed with all the glow of heat and determination, Ed- 
ward Glendinning rushed into the room. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND. 

Then in my. gown of sober grey 

Along the mountain path I’ll wander, 

And wind my solitary way 

To the sad shrine that courts me yonder. 

There, in the calm, monastic shade, 

All injuries maybe forgiven ; 

And there for thee, obdurate maid. 

My orisons shall rise to heaven. 

The Cruel Lady of the Mountains. 

The first words which Edward uttered were, — “ My 
brother is safe, reverend father — he is safe, thank God, and 
lives ! There is not in Corri-nan-shian a grave, nor a ves- 
tige of a grave. The turf around the fountain has neither 
been disturbed by pick-axe, spade, nor mattock, since the 
deer’s-hair first sprang there. He lives as surely as I live !” 

The earnestness of the youth — the vivacity with which 
he looked and moved — the springy step, outstretched 
hand, and ardent eye, reminded Henry Warden of Halbert, 
so lately his guide. The brothers had indeed a strong 
family resemblance, though Halbert was far more athletic 
and active in his person, taller and better knit in the limbs, 
and though Edward had, on ordinary occasions, a look of 
more habitual acuteness and more profound reflection. The 
preacher was interested as well as the Sub-Prior. 

Of whom do you speak, my son?” he said, in a tone 
as unconcerned as if his own fate had not been at the same 


THE MONASTERY. 


345 


instant trembling in the balance, and as if a dungeon and 
death did not appear to be his instant doom — “ Of whom, 
I say, speak you ? If of a youth somewhat older than 
you seem to be — brown-haired, open-featured, taller and 
stronger than you appear, yet having much of the same air 
and of the same tone of voice — if such a one is the brother 
whom you seek, it may be I can tell you news of him.” 

“Speak, then, for Heaven’s sake,” said Edward — “life 
or death lies on thy tongue ! ” 

The Sub-Prior joined eagerly in the same request, and, 
without waiting to be urged, the preacher gave a minute 
account of the circumstances under which he met the elder 
Glendinning, with so exact a description of his person, 
that there remained no doubt as to his identity. When he 
mentioned that Halbert Glendinning had conducted him to 
the dell in which they found the grass bloody, and a grave 
newly closed, and told how the youth accused himself of 
the slaughter of Sir Piercie Shafton, the Sub-Prior looked 
on Edward with astonishment. 

“ Dids’t thou not say, even now,” he said, “that there was 
no vestige of a grave in that spot ? ” 

“No more vestige of the earth having been removed 
than if the turf had grown there since the days of Adam,” 
replied Edward Glendinning. “ It is true,” he added, 
“that the adjacent grass was trampled and bloody.” 

“ These are delusions of the Enemy,” said the Sub-Prior, 
crossing himself — “ Christian men may no longer doubt of 
it.” 

“ But an it be so,” said Warden, “ Christian men might 
better guard themselves by the sword of prayer than by 
the idle form of a cabalistical spell.” 

“ The badge of our salvation,” said the Sub-Prior, “ can- 
not be so termed — the sign of the cross disarmeth all evil 
spirits.” 

“Ay,” answered Henry Warden, apt and armed for con- 
troversy, “ but it should be borne in the heart, not scored 
with the fingers in the air. That very impassive air, through 
which your hand passes, shall as soon bear the imprint of 
your action, as the external action shall avail the fond bigot 
who substitutes vain motions of the body, idle genuflec- 
tions, and signs of the cross, for the living and heart-born 
duties of faith and good works.” 

“ I pity thee,” said the Sub-Prior, as actively ready for 
polemics as himself,— “ I pity thee, Henry, and reply not 
to thee. Thou mayest as well winnow forth and measure 


346 


THE MONASTERY. 


the ocean with a sieve, as mete out the power of holy words, 
deeds, and signs, by the erring gauge of thine own reason.” 

“ Not by mine own reason would I mete them,” said War- 
den ; “ but by His holy Word, that unfading and unerring 
lamp of our paths, compared to which human reason is but 
as a glimmering and fading taper, and your boasted tradi- 
tion only a misleading wildfire. Show me your Scripture 
warrant for ascribing virtue to such vain signs and mo- 
tions ! ” 

“ I offered thee a fair field of debate,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“which thou didst refuse. I will not at present resume the 
controversy.” 

“ Were these my last accents,” said the reformer, “ and 
were they uttered at the stake, half-choked with smoke, and 
as the fagots kindled into a blaze around me, with that last 
utterance I would testify against the superstitious devices 
of Rome.” 

The Sub-Prior suppressed with pain the controversial 
answer which arose to his lips, and, turning to Edward 
Glendinning, he said,“ there could be now no doubt that his 
mother ought presently to be informed that her sonTived.” 

“ I told you that two hours since,” said Christie of the 
Clinthill, “ an you would have believed me. But it seems 
you are more willing to take the word of an old gray sorner, 
whose life has been spent in pattering heresy, than mine, 
though I never rode a foray in my life without duly saying 
my paternoster.” 

“ Go, then,” said Father Eustace to Edward ; “ let thy 
sorrowing mother know that her son is restored to her from 
the grave, like the child of the widow of Zarephath ; at the 
intercession,” he added, looking at Henry Warden, “of the 
blessed Saint whom I invoked in his behalf.” 

“ Deceived thyself,” said Warden, instantly, “thou art a 
deceiver of others. It was no dead man, no creature of 
clay, whom the blessed Tishbite invoked, when, stung by 
the reproach of the Shunammite woman, he prayed that 
her son’s soul might come into him again.” 

“ It was by his intercession, however,” repeated the Sub- 
Prior ; “for what says the Vulgate ? Thus it is written * 
‘ Et exaudivit Dominus vocem Helie ; ct reversa est anima pueri 
intra eum , et revixit ; ’ — and thinkest thou the intercession 
of a glorified saint is more feeble than when he walks on 
earth, shrouded in a tabernacle of clay, and seeing but with 
the eye of flesh ? ” 

During this controversy Edward Glendinning appeared 


THE MONASTERY. 


347 


restless and impatient, agitated by some strong internal 
feeling, but whether of joy, grief, or expectation, his coun- 
tenance did not expressly declare. He took now the un- 
usual freedom to break in upon the discourse of the Sub- 
Prior, who, notwithstanding his resolution to the contrary, 
was obviously kindling in the spirit of controversy, which 
Edward diverted by conjuring his reverence to allow him 
to speak a few words with him in private. 

“Remove the prisoner,” said the Sub-Prior to Christie ; 
“look to him carefully that he escape not ; but for thy life 
do him no injury.” * 

His commands being obeyed, Edward and the monk were 
left alone, when the Sub-Prior thus addressed him : 

“ What hath come over thee, Edward, that thy eye kindles 
so wildly, and thy cheek is thus changing from scarlet to 
pale ? Why didst thou break in so hastily and unadvisedly 
upon the argument with which I was prostrating yonder 
heretic ? And wherefore dost thou not tell thy mother 
that her son is restored to her by the intercession, as Holy 
Church well warrants us to believe, of blessed Saint Bene- 
dict, the patron of our Order? For if ever my prayers 
were put forth to him with zeal, it hath been in behalf of 
this house, and thine eyes have seen the result — go tell it 
to thy mother.” 

“ I must tell her then,” said Edward, “that if she has 
regained one son, another is lost to her.” 

“What meanest thou, Edward? what language is this?” * 
said the Sub-Prior. 

“Father,” said the youth, kneeling down to him, “my 
sin and my shame shall be told thee, and thou shalt witness 
my penance with thine own eyes.” 

“ I comprehend thee not,” said the Sub-Prior. “ What 
canst thou have done to deserve such self-accusation ? — 
Hast thou too listened,” he added, knitting his brows, “ to 
the demon of heresy, ever most effectual tempter of those, 
who, like yonder unhappy man, are distinguished by their 
love of knowledge ?” 

“ I am guiltless in that matter,” answered Glendinning, 

“ nor have presumed to think otherwise than thou, my 
kind father, hast taught me, and than the Church allows.” 

“ And what is it then, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, 
kindly, “ which thus afflicts thy couscience ? speak it to 
me, that I may answer thee in the words of comfort ; for 
the Church’s mercy is great to those obedient children 
who doubt not her power.” 


348 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ My confession will require her mercy,” replied Ed- 
ward. “ My brother Halbert— so kind, so brave, so gentle, 
who spoke not, thought not, acted not, but in love to me, 
whose hand had aided me in every difficulty, whose eye 
watched over me like the eagle’s over her nestlings, when 
they prove their first flight from the eyry — this brother, so 
kind, so gently affectionate — I heard of his sudden, his 
bloody, his violent death, and I rejoiced — I heard of his 
unexpected restoration, and I sorrowed ! ” 

“ Edward,” said the father, “thou art beside thyself— 
what could urge thee to such odiouslngratitude ? — In your 
hurry of spirits you have mistaken the confused tenor of 
your feelings — Go, my son, pray and compose thy mind — 
we will speak of this another time.” 

“No, father, no,” said Edward, vehemently, “now or 
never ! — I will find the means to tame this rebellious heart 
of mine, or I will tear it out of my bosom — Mistake its 
passions ? — No, father, grief can ill be mistaken for joy — 
All wept, all shrieked around me — my mother — the menials 
— she too, the cause of my crime — all wept — and I — I 1 
could hardly disguise my brutal and insane joy under the 
appearance of revenge — Brother, I said, I cannot give thee 
tears, but I will give thee blood — Yes, father, as 1 counted 
hour after hour, while I kept watch upon the English 
prisoner, and said, I am an hour nearer to hope and to 
happiness ” 

“I understand thee not, Edward,” said the monk, “nor 
can I conceive in what way thy brother’s supposed mur- 
der should have affected thee with such unnatural joy 
— Surely the sordid desire to succeed him in his small 
possessions ” 

“ Perish the paltry trash ! ” said Edward with the same 
emotion. “No, father, it was rivalry — it was jealous rage 
— it was the love of Mary Avenel, that rendered me the 
unnatural wretch I confess myself ! ” 

“ Of Mary Avenel ! ” said the Priest — “ of a lady so high 
above either of you in name and in rank ? How dared 
Halbert — how dared you, to presume to lift your eye to 
her but in honor and respect, as a superior of another de- 
gree from yours ? ” 

“ When did love wait for the sanction of heraldry ? ” re- 
plied Edward ; “ and in what but a line of dead ancestors 
was Mary, our mother’s guest and foster-child, different 
from us with whom she was brought up ? — Enough, we 
loved— we both loved her ! But the passion of Halbert 


THE MONASTERY. 


349 


was requited. He knew it not, he saw it not — but I was 
sharper-eyed. I saw that even when I was more approved, 
Halbert was more beloved. With me she would sit for 
hours at our common task with the cold simplicity and in- 
difference of a sister, but with Halbert she trusted not her- 
•self. She changed color, she was fluttered when he ap- 
proached her ; and when he left her she was sad, pensive, 
and solitary. I bore all this — I saw my rival’s advancing 
progress in her affections — I bore it, father, and yet I 
hated him not — I could not hate him ! ” 

“And well for thee that thou didst not,” said the father/ 
“ wild and headstrong as thou art, wouldst thou hate thy 
brother for partaking in thine own folly?” 

“Father,” replied Edward, “the world esteems thee 
wise, and holds thy knowledge of mankind high ; but thy 
question shows that thou hast never loved. It was by an 
effort that I saved myself from hating my kind and affec- 
tionate brother, who, all unsuspicious of my rivalry, was 
perpetually loading me with kindness. Nay, there were 
moods of my mind in which I could return that kindness 
for a time with energetic enthusiasm. Never did I feel 
this so strongly as on the night which parted us. But I 
could not help rejoicing when he was swept from my path 
— could not help sorrowing when he was again restored to 
be a stumbling-block in my paths.” 

“ May God be gracious to thee, my son ! ” said the monk ; 
“this is an awful state of mind. Even in such evil mood 
did the first murderer rise up against his brother, because 
Abel’s was the more acceptable sacrifice.” 

“I will wrestle with the demon which has haunted me, 
father,” replied the youth, firmly — “I will wrestle with 
him, and I will subdue him. But first I must remove from 
the scenes which are to follow here. I cannot endure 
that I should see Mary Avenel’s eyes again flash with jov 
at the restoration of her lover. It were a sight to make 
indeed a second Cain of me ! My fierce, turbid, and 
transitory joy discharged itself in a thirst to commit homi- 
cide, and how can I estimate the frenzy of my despair ?” 

“ Madman !” said the Sub-Prior, “at what dreadful crime 
does thy fury drive ?” 

“ My lot is determined, father,” said Edward, in a resolute 
tone ; “ I will embrace the spiritual state which you have 
so oft recommended. It is my purpose to return with you to 
Saint Mary’s, and, with the permission of the Holy Virgin 
and of Saint Benedict, to offer my profession to the Abbot.” 


350 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Not now, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “not in this dis« 
temperature of mind. The wise and good accept not gifts 
which are made in heat of blood, and which may be after 
repented of ; and shall we make our offerings to wisdom 
and to goodness itself with less of solemn resolution and 
deep devotion of mind, than is necessary to make them 
acceptable to our own frail companions in this valley of 
darkness ? This I say to thee, my son, not as meaning to 
deter thee from the good path thou art now inclined to 
prefer, but that thou mayest make thy vocation and thine 
election sure.” 

“There are actions, father, ’’ returned Edward, “which 
brook no delay, and this is one. It must be done this very 
now ; or it may never be done. Let me go with you ; let 
me not behold the return of Halbert into this house. 
Shame, and the sense of the injustice I have already done 
him, will join with these dreadful passions which urge me 
to do him yet farther wrong. Let me then go with you.” 

“With me, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “thou shalt 
surely go ; but our rule, as well as reason and good order, 
require that you should dwell a space with us as a proba- 
tioner, or novice, before taking upon thee those final vows, 
which, sequestering thee for ever from the world, dedicate 
thee to the service of Heaven.” 

“And when shall we set forth, father ?” said the youth, 
as eagerly as if the journey which he was now undertaking 
led to the pleasures of a summer holiday. 

“ Even now, if thou wilt,” said the Sub-Prior, yielding to 
his impetuosity — “go, then, and command them to prepare 
for our departure. — Yet stay,” he said, as Edward, with all 
the awakened enthusiasm of his character, hastened from 
his presence, “come hither, my son, and kneel down.” 

Edward obeyed, and kneeled down before him. Not- 
withstanding his slight figure and thin features, the Sub- 
Prior could, from the energy of his tone, and the earnest- 
ness of his devotional manner, impress his pupils and his 
penitents with no ordinary feelings of personal reverence. 
His heart always was, as well as seemed to be, in the duty 
which he was immediately performing ; and the spiritual 
guide who thus shows a deep conviction of the importance 
of his office, seldom fails to impress a similar feeling upon 
his hearers. Upon such occasions as the present, his puny 
body seemed to assume more majestic stature — his spare 
and emaciated countenance bore a bolder, loftier, and 
more commanding pqrt — his voice, always beautiful, trcm- 


THE MONASTERY. 


35i 


bled as laboring under the immediate impulse of Divinity 
— and his whole demeanor seemed to bespeak, not the 
mere ordinary man, but the organ of the Church in which 
she. had vested her high power for delivering sinners from 
their load of iniquity. 

“ Hast thou, my fair son,” said he, “faithfully recounted 
the circumstances which have thus suddenly determined 
thee to a religious life ?” 

“ The sins I have confessed, my father,” answered Ed- 
ward, “ but I have not yet told of a strange appearance, 
which, acting in my mind, hath, I think, aided to deter- 
mine my resolution.” 

“Tell it then now,” returned the Sub-Prior; “it is thy 
duty to leave me uninstructed in naught, so that thereby I 
may understand the temptation that besets thee.” 

“I tell it with unwillingness,” said Edward; “for al- 
though, God wot, I speak but the mere truth, yet even 
while my tongue speaks it as truth, my own ears receive it 
as fable.” 

“Yet say the whole,” said Father Eustace; “neither 
fear rebuke from me, seeing I may know reasons for re- 
ceiving as true that w T hich others might regard as fabu- 
lous.” 

“ Know, then, father,” replied Edward, “ that betwixt 
hope and despair — and, heavens! what a hope ! — the hope 
to find the corpse mangled and crushed hastily in among 
the bloody clay which the foot of the scornful victor had 
trod down upon my good, my gentle, my courageous 
brother, — I sped to the glen called Corri-nan-shian ; but, 
as your reverence has been already informed, neither the 
grave which my unhallowed wishes had in spite of my 
better self longed to see, nor any appearance of the earth 
having been opened, was visible in the solitary spot where 
Martin had, at morning yesterday, seen the fatal hillock. 
You know our dalesmen, father. The place hath an evil 
name, and this deception of the sight inclined them to 
leave it. My companions became affrighted, and hastened 
down the glen as men caught in trespass. My hopes were 
too much blighted, my mind too much agitated, to fear 
either the living or the dead. I descended the glen more 
slowly than they, often looking back, and not ill pleased 
with the poltroonery of my companions, which left me to 
my own perplexed and moody humor, and induced them 
to hasten into the broader dale. They were already out of 
sight, and lost among the windings of the glen, when, 


35 2 


THE MONASTERY. 


looking back, I saw a female form standing beside the 
fountain ” 

“ How, my fair son ? ” said the Sub-Prior, “ beware you 
jest not with your present situation ! ” 

“I jest not, father,” answered the youth ; “it may be I 
shall never jest again — surely not for many a day. I saw, 

I say, the form of a female clad in white, such as the 
Spirit which haunts the house of Avenel is supposed to be. 
Believe me, my father, for, by heaven and earth, I say 
naught but what I saw with these eyes ! ” 

“I believe thee, my son,” said the monk ; “proceed in 
thy strange story.” 

“The apparition,” said Edward Glendinning, “sung, and 
thus ran her lay ; for, strange as it may seem to you, her 
words abide by my remembrance as if they had been sung 
to me from infancy upward : 

‘ Thou who seek’ st my fountain lone, 

With thoughts and hopes thou dar’st not own ; 

Whose heart within leap’d wildly glad 
When most his brow seem’d dark and sad ; 

Hie thee back, thou find’st not here 
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; 

The Dead Alive is gone and fled — 

Go thou and join the Living Dead ! 

* The Living Dead, whose sober brow 
Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now. 

Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
Of passions by their vows abjured ; 

Where, under sad and solemn show, 

Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow. 

Seek the convent’s vaulted room, 

Prayer and vigil be thy doom ; 

Doff the green, and don the grey, 

To the cloister hence away ! ’ ” 

“’Tisawild lay,” said the Sub-Prior, “and chanted, I 
fear me, with no good end. But we have power to turn 
the machinations of Satan to his shame. Edward, thou 
shalt go with me as thou desirest ; thou shalt prove the 
life for which I have long thought thee best fitted — thou 
shalt aid, my son, this trembling hand of mine to sustain 
the Holy Ark, which bold, unhallowed men press rashly 
forward to touch and to profane. — Wilt thou not first see 
thy mother ? ” 

“ I will see no one,” said Edward, hastily , “ I will risk 
nothing that may shake the purpose of my heart. From 


THE MONASTERY. 


353 


Saint Mary’s they shall learn my destination — all of them 
shall learn it. My mother — Mary Avenel — my restored 
and happy brother— they shall all know that Edward lives 
no longer to the world to be a clog on their happiness. 
Mary shall no longer need to constrain her looks and ex- 
pressions to coldness because I am nigh. She shall no 
longer ” 

“My son,” said the Sub-Prior, interrupting him, “it is 
not by looking back on the vanities and vexations of this 
world that we fit ourselves for the discharge of duties 
which are not of it. Go, get our horses ready, and, as we 
descend the glen together, I will teach thee the truths 
through which the fathers and wise men of old had 
that precious alchemy, which can convert suffering into 
happiness.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD. 

Now, on my faith, this gear is all entangled, 

Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter, 

Dragg’d by the frolic kitten through the cabin 
While the good dame sits nodding o’er the fire ! 

Masters, attend ; ’twill crave some skill to clear it. 

Old Play. 

Edward, with the speed of one who doubts the steadi- 
ness of his own resolution, hastened to prepare the horses 
for their departure, and at the same time thanked and dis- 
missed the neighbors who had come to his assistance, and 
who were not a little surprised both at the suddenness of 
the proposed departure, and at the turn affairs had taken. 

“ Here’s cold hospitality,” quoth Dan of the Howlet- 
hirst to his comrades ; “ I trow the Glendinnings may die 
and come alive right oft, ere I put foot in stirrup again 
for the matter.” 

Martin soothed them by placing food and liquor before 
them. They ate sullenly, however, and departed in bad 
humor. 

The joyful news that Halbert Glendinning lived, was 
quickly communicated through the sorrowing family. The 
mother wept and thanked Heaven alternately ; until, her 
habits of domestic economy awakening as her feelings 
became calmer, she observed, “ It would be an unco task 
to mend the yets, and what were they to do while they 

2 3 


354 


THE MONASTERY. 


were broken in that fashion ? At open doors dogs come 
in.” 

Tibb remarked, “ She aye thought Halbert was ower 
gleg at his weapon to be killed sae easily by ony Sir Pier- 
cie of them a’. They might say of these Southrons as 
they liked ; but they had not the pith and wind of a canny 
Scot, when it came to close grips.” 

On Mary Avenel the impression was inconceivably deep- 
er. She had but newly learned to pray, and it seemed to 
her that her prayers had been instantly answered — that 
the compassion of Heaven, which she had learned to im- 
plore in the words of Scripture, had descended upon her 
after a manner almost miraculous, and recalled the dead 
from the grave at the sound of her lamentations. There 
was a dangerous degree of enthusiasm in this strain of 
feeling, but it originated in the purest devotion. 

A silken and embroidered muffler, one of the few ar- 
ticles of more costly attire which she possessed, was de- 
voted to the purpose of wrapping up and concealing the 
sacred volume, which henceforth she was to regard as her 
chiefest treasure, lamenting only that, for want of a fitting 
interpreter, much must remain to her a book closed and 
a fountain sealed. She was unaware of the yet greater 
danger she incurred, of putting an imperfect or even false 
sense upon some of the doctrines which appeared most 
comprehensible. But Heaven had provided against both 
these hazards. 

While Edward was preparing the horses, Christie of the 
Clinthill again solicited his orders respecting the reformed 
preacher, Henry Warden, and again the worthy monk 
labored to reconcile in his own mind the compassion and 
esteem which, almost in spite of him, he could not help 
feeling for his former companion, with the duty which he 
owed to the Church. The unexpected resolution of Ed- 
ward had removed, he thought, the chief objection to his 
being left at Glendearg. > 

“ If I carry this Wellwood, or Warden, to the Monastery,” 
he thought, “ he must die — die in his heresy — perish body 
and soul. And though such a measure was once thought ad- 
visable, to strike terror into the heretics, yet such is now 
their daily increasing strength, that it may rather rouse 
them to fury and to revenge. True, he refuses to pledge 
himself to abstain from sowing his tares among the wheat ; 
but the ground here is too barren to receive them. I fear 
not his making impression on these poor women, the vas- 


THE MONASTERY . 


355 


sals of the Church, and bred up in due obedience to her 
behests. The keen, searching, inquiring, and bold dispo- 
sition of Edward, might have afforded fuel to the fire ; blit 
that is removed, and there is nothing left which the flame 
may catch to. — Thus shall he have no power to spread his 
evil doctrines abroad, and yet his life shall be preserved, 
and it may be his soul rescued as a prey from the fowl- 
er’s net. I will myself contend with him in argument ; for 
when we studied in common, I yielded not to him, and 
surely the cause for which I struggle will support me, 
were I yet more weak than I deem myself. Were this 
man reclaimed from his errors, an hundred-fold more ad- 
vantage would arise to the Church from his spiritual re- 
generation, than from his temporal death.’’ 

Having finished these meditations, in which there was 
at once goodness of disposition and narrowness of principle, 
a considerable portion of self-opinion and no small degree 
of self-delusion, the Sub-Prior commanded the prisoner 
to be brought into his presence. 

“ Henry,” he said, “whatever a rigid sense of duty may 
demand of me, ancient friendship and Christian compas- 
sion forbid me to lead thee to assured death. Thou wert 
wont to be generous, though stern and stubborn in thy 
resolves ; let not thine sense of what thine own thoughts 
term duty, draw thee farther than mine have done. Re- 
member, that every sheep whom thou shalt here lead 
astray from the fold, will be demanded in time and through 
eternity of him who hath left thee the liberty of doing 
such evil. I ask no engagement of thee, save that thou 
remain a prisoner on thy word at this tower, and wilt ap- 
pear when summoned.” 

“ Thou hast found an invention to bind my hands,” re- 
plied the preacher, “more sure than would have been the 
heaviest shackles in the prison of thy convent. I will not 
rashly do what may endanger thee with thy unhappy su- 
periors, and I will be the more cautious, because, if we had 
farther opportunity of conference, I trust thine own soul 
may yet be rescued as a brand from the burning, and that, 
casting from thee the livery of Antichrist, that trader in 
human sins and human souls, I may yet assist thee to lay 
hold on the Rock of Ages.” 

The Sub-Prior heard the sentiment, so similar to that 
which had occurred to himself, with the same kindly feel- 
ings with which the game-cock hears and replies to the 
challenge of his rival. 


35 6 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ I bless God and Our Lady,” said he, drawing himself 
up, “that my faith is already anchored on that Rock on 
which St. Peter founded his Church.” 

“It is a perversion of the text,” said the eager Henry 
Warden, “grounded on. a vain play upon words— a most 
idle paronomasia.” 

The 'controversy would have been rekindled, and in all 
probability — for what can insure the good temper and 
moderation of polemics ? — might have ended in the preach- 
er’s being transported a captive to the Monastery, had not 
Christie of the Clinthill observed that it was growing late, 
and that he, having to descend the glen, which had no good 
reputation, cared not greatly for travelling there after sun- 
set. The Sub-Prior, therefore, stifled his desire of argu- 
ment, and again telling the preacher that he trusted to his 
gratitude and generosity, he bade him farewell. 

“Be assured, my old friend,” replied Warden, “that no 
willing act of mine shall be to thy prejudice. But if my 
Master shall place work before me, I must obey God rather 
than man.” 

These two men, both excellent from natural disposition 
and acquired knowledge, had more points of similarity 
than they themselves would have admitted. In truth, the 
chief distinction betwixt them was, that the Catholic, de- 
fending a religion which afforded little interest to the feel- 
ings, had, in his devotion to the cause lie espoused, more 
of the head than of the heart, and was politic, cautious, 
and artful ; while the Protestant, acting under the strong 
impulse of more lately-adopted conviction, and feeling, as 
he justly might, a more animated confidence in his cause, 
was enthusiastic, eager, and precipitate in his desire to ad- 
vance it. The priest would have been contented to defend, 
the preacher aspired to conquer ; and, of course, the im- 
pulse by which the latter was governed, was more active 
and more decisive. They could not part from each other 
without a second pressure of hands, and each looked in 
the face of his old companion, as he bade him adieu, with 
a countenance strongly expressive of sorrow, affection, 
and pity. 

Father Eustace then explained briefly to Dame Glen- 
dinning, that this person was to be her guest for some 
days, forbidding her and her whole household, under high 
spiritual censures, to hold any conversation with him on 
religious subjects, but commanding her to attend to his 
wants in all other particulars. 


THE MONASTERY. 


357 


“ May our Lady forgive me, reverend father,” said Dame 
Glendinning, somewhat dismayed at this intelligence, “but 
I must needs say, that ower mony guests have been the 
ruin of mony a house, and I trow they will bring down 
Glendearg. First came the Lady of Avenel — (her soul be 
at rest — she meant nae ill) — but she brought with her as 
mony bogles and fairies, as hae kept the house in care ever 
since, sae that we have been living as it were in a dream. 
And then came that English knight, if it please you, and 
if he hasna killed my son outright, he has chased him aff 
the gate, and it may be lang eneugh ere I see him again — 
forby the damage done to outer door and inner door. And 
now your reverence has given me the charge of a heretic, 
who, it is like, may bring the great horned devil himself 
down upon us all ; and they say that it is neither door nor 
window will serve him, but he will take away the side of 
the auld tower along with him. Nevertheless, reverend 
father, your pleasure is doubtless to be done to our power.” 

“Go to, woman,” said the Sub-Prior, “ send for work- 
men from the clachan, and let them charge the expense of 
their repairs to the Community, and I will give the treas- 
urer warrant to allow them. Moreover, in settling the 
rental mails, and feu-duties, thou shalt have allowance for 
the trouble and charges to which thou art now put, and I 
will cause strict search to be made after thy son.” 

The dame courtesied deep and low at each favorable ex- 
pression ; and whqn the Sub-Prior had done speaking, she 
added her farther hope that the Sub-Prior would hold some 
communing with her gossip the Miller, concerning the fate 
of his daughter/ and expound to him that the chance had 
by no means happened through any negligence on her part. 

“I sair doubt me, father,” she said, “whether Mysie 
finds her way back to the Mill in a hurry ; but it was all 
her father’s own fault that let her run lamping about the 
country, riding on bare-backed naigs, and never settling 
to do a turn of wark within doors, unless it were to dress 
dainties at dinner time for his ain kyte.” 

“You remind me, dame, of another matter of urgency,” 
said Father Eustace; “and, God knows, too many of them 
press on me at this moment. This English knight must 
be sought out, and explanation given to him of these most 
strange chances. The giddy girl must also be recovered. 
If she hath suffered in reputation by this unhappy mistake, 
I will not hold myself innocent of the disgrace. Yet how 
to find them out I know not.” 


358 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ So please you,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “ I am 
willing to take the chase, and bring them back by fair 
means or foul ; for though you have always looked as 
black as night at me, whenever we have forgathered, yet I 
have not forgotten that, had it not been for you, my neck 
would have kend the weight of my four quarters.* If any 
man can track the tread of them, I will say in the face of 
both Merse and Teviotdale, and take the Forest to boot, I 
am that man. But first I have matters to treat of on my 
master’s score, if you will permit me to ride down the glen 
with you.” 

“Nay but, my friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “thou 
shouldst remember I have but slender cause to trust thee 
for a companion through a place so solitary.” 

“ Tush ! tush ! ” said the jackman, “ fear me not ; I had 
the worst too surely to begin that sport again. Besides, 
have I not said a dozen times, I owe you a life ? and when 
I owe a man either a good turn or a bad, I never fail to 
pay it sooner or later. Moreover, beshrew me if I care to 
go alone down the glen, or even with my troopers, who 
are, every loon of them, as much devil’s bairns as myself ; 
whereas, if your reverence, since that is the word, take 
beads and psalter, and I come along with jack and spear 
you will make the devils take the air, and I will make all 
human enemies take the earth.” 

Edward here entered, and told his reverence that his 
horse was prepared. At this instant his eye caught his 
mother’s, and the resolution which he had so strongly 
formed was staggered when he recollected the necessity of 
bidding her farewell. The Sub-Prior saw his embarrass- 
ment, and came to his relief. 

“ Dame,” said he, “ I forgot to mention that your son 
Edward goes with me to Saint Mary’s, and will not return 
for two or three days.” 

“You’ll be wishing to help him to recover his brother! 
May the saints reward your kindness ! ” 

The Sub-Prior returned the benediction which, in this 
instance, he had not very well deserved, and he and Ed- 
ward set forth on their route. They were presently fol- 
lowed by Christie, w T ho came up with his followers at such 

* In Sir David Lyndsay’s Play, this proverbial saying is used by Common 
Thift in a more homely form : 

Get this curst King me in his grippis, 

My craig (or neck) will wit quhat weyis my hippis. 


THE MONASTERY. 


359 


a speedy pace, as intimated sufficiently that his wish to 
obtain spiritual convoy through the glen was extremely 
sincere. He had, however, other matters to stimulate his 
speed, for he was desirous to communicate to the Sub- 
Prior a message from his master Julian, connected with 
the delivery of the prisoner Warden ; and having requested 
the Sub-Prior to ride with him a few yards before Edward 
and the troopers of his own party, he thus addressed him, 
sometimes interrupting his discourse in a manner testify- 
ing that his fear of supernatural beings was not altogether 
lulled to rest by his confidence in the sanctity of his fellow- 
traveller. 

“ My master,” said the rider, “deemed he had sent you 
an acceptable gift in that old heretic preacher ; but it 
seems, from the slight care you have taken of him, that 
you make small account of the boon.” 

“Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “do not thus judge of it. 
The community must account highly of the service, and 
will reward it to thv master in goodly fashion. But this 
man and I are old friends, and I trust to bring him back 
from the paths of perdition.” 

“ Nay,” said the moss-trooper, “when I saw you shake 
hands at the beginning I counted that you would fight it 
all out in love and honor, and that there would be no ex- 
treme dealings betwixt ye — however, it is all one to my 
master — Saint Mary ! what call you yon, Sir Monk ? ” 

“ The branch of a willow streaming across the path be- 
twixt us and the sky.” 

“ Beshrew me,” said Christie, “if it looked not like a 
man’s hand holding a sword. — But, touching my master, 
he, like a prudent man, hath kept himself aloof in these 
broken times, until he could see with precision what foot- 
ing he was to stand upon. Right tempting offers he hath 
had from the Lords of Congregation, whom you call here- 
tics ; and at one time' he was minded, to be plain with you, 
to have taken their way — for he was assured that the Lord 
James* was coming this road at the head of a round body 
of cavalry. And accordingly Lord James did so far reckon 
upon him, that he sent this man Warden, or whatsoever 
be his name, to my master’s protection, as an assured 
friend ; and, moreover, with tidings that he himself was 
marching hitherward at the head of a strong body of horse.” 

“ Now, Our Lady forfend ! ” said the Sub-Prior. 

* Lord James Stewart, afterwards the Regent Murray. 


36 ° 


THE MONASTERY. 


“Amen !” answered Christie, in some trepidation, “did 
your reverence see aught ? ” 

“ Nothing whatever,” replied the monk ; “it was thy tale 
which wrested from me that exclamation.” 

“And it was some cause,” replied he of the Clinthill, 
“for if Lord James should come hither, your Halidome 
would smoke for it. But be of good cheer — that expedi- 
tion is ended before it was begun. The Baron of Avenel 
had sure news that Lord James has been fain to march 
-westward with his merry-men, to protect Lord Semple 
against Cassilis and the Kennedies. By my faith, it will 
cost him a brush ; for wot ye what they say of that name, — 

‘’Twixt Wigton and the town-of Ayr, 

Portpatrick and the cruives of Cree, 

No mail need think for to bide there, 

Unless he court Saint Kennedie.’ ” * 

“ Then,” said the Sub-Prior, “ the Lord James’s purpose 
of coming southwards being broken, cost this person, 
Henry Warden, a cold reception at Avenel Castle.” 

“It would not have been altogether so rough a one,” 
said the moss-trooper ; “ for my master was in heavy 
thought what to do in these unsettled times, and would 
scarce have hazarded misusing a man sent to him by so 
terrible a leader as the Lord James. But, to speak the 
truth, some busy devil tempted the old man to meddle 
with my master’s Christian liberty of hand-fasting with 
Catherine of Newport. So that broke the wand of peace 
between them, and now ye may have my master, and all 
the force he can make, at your devotion, for Lord James 
never forgave wrong done to him ; and if he come by the 
upper hand, he will have Julian’s head if there were never 
another of the name, as it is like there is not, excepting 
the bit slip of a lassie yonder. And now I have told you 
more of my master’s affairs than he would thank me for ; 
but you have done me a frank turn once, and I may need 
one at your hands again.” 

“Thy frankness,” said the Sub-Prior, “shall surely ad- 
vantage thee ; for much it concerns the Church in these 
broken times to know the purposes and motives of those 
around us. But what is it that thy master expects from 

* [This rhyme occurs with some variations in an old description of Car- 
rick (South Ayrshire), by the parish minister of Maybole, who says that the 
Kennedys flourished so in power and number that they gave rise to the 
rhyme in question.] 


THE MONASTERY. 361 

us in reward of good service ; for I esteem him one of 
those who are not willing to work without their hire ?” 

“Nay, that I can tell you flatly; for Lord James had 
promised him, in case he would be of his faction in these 
parts, an easy tack of the teind-sheaves of his own barony 
of Avenel, together with the lands of Cranberry Moor, 
which lie intersected with his own. And he will look for 
no less at your hand.” 

“ But there is old Gilbert of Cranberry Moor,” said the 
Sub-Prior, “ what are we to make of him ? The heretic 
Lord James may take on him to dispone upon the goods 
and lands of the Halidome at his pleasure, because, doubt- 
less, but for the protection of God, and the baronage 
which yet remain faithful to their creed, he may despoil 
us of them by force ; but while they are the property of 
the Community, we may not take steadings from ancient 
and faithful vassals, to gratify the covetousness of those 
who serve God only from the lucre of gain.” 

“ By the mass,” said Christie, “it is well talking, Sir 
Priest ; but when ye consider that Gilbert has but two 
half-starved cowardly peasants to follow him, and only an 
auld jaded aver to ride upon, fitter for the plough than for 
manly service ; and that the Baron of Avenel never rides 
with fewer than ten jackmen at his back, and oftener with 
fifty, bodin in all that effeirs to war as if they were to do 
battle for a kingdom, and mounted on nags that nicker 
at the clash of the sword as if it were the clank of the lid 
of a corn-chest — I say, when ye have computed all this, 
ye may guess what course will best serve your Monas- 
tery.” 

“Friend,” said the monk, “I would willingly purchase 
thy master’s assistance on his own terms, since times leave 
us no better means of defence against the sacrilegious 
spoliation of heresy ; but to take from a poor man his 
patrimony ” 

“ For that matter,” said the rider, “ his seat would scarce 
be a soft one, if my master'thought that Gilbert’s interest 
stood betwixt him and what he wishes. The Halidome 
has land enough, and Gilbert may be quartered else- 
where.” 

“ We will consider the possibility of so disposing the 
matter,” said the monk, “and will expect in consequence 
your master’s most active assistance, with all the followers 
he can make, to join in the defence of the Halidome. 
against any force by which it may be threatened.” 


3 62 


THE MONASTERY, 


“ A man’s hand and a mailed glove on that,” * said the 
jackman. “They call us marauders, thieves, and what 
not ; but the side we take we hold by. And I will be 
blithe when my Baron comes to a point which side he will 
take, for the castle is a kind of hell (Our Lady forgive me 
for naming such a word in this place !) while lie is in his 
mood, studying how he may best advantage himself. And 
now, Heaven be praised ! we are in the open valley, and I 
may swear a round oath, should aught happen to provoke 
it.” 

“My friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “thou hast little merit 
in abstaining from oaths or blasphemy, if it be only out of 
fear of evil spirits.” 

“ Nay, I am not quite a church vassal yet,” said the 
jackman, “and if you link the curb too tight on a young 
horse, I promise you he will rear — Why, it is much for me 
to forbear old customs on any account whatever.” 

The night being fine, they forded the river at the spot 
where the Sacristan met with his unhappy encounter with 
the spirit. As soon as they arrived at the gate of the 
Monastery, the porter in waiting eagerly exclaimed, “ Rev- 
erend father, the Lord Abbot is most anxious for your 
presence.” 

“ Let these strangers be carried to the great hall,” said 
the Sub-Prior, “ and be treated with the best by the cel- 
larer ; reminding them, however, of that modesty and 
decency of conduct which becometh guests in a house like 
this.” 

“ But the Lord Abbot demands you instantly, my vener- 
able brother,” said Father Philip, arriving in great haste. 
“I have not seen him more discouraged or desolate of 
counsel since the field of Pinkiecleugh was stricken. ” 

“ I come, my good brother, I come,” said Father Eus- 
tace. “I pray thee, good brother, let this youth, Edward 
Glendinning, be conveyed to the Chamber of the Novices, 
and placed under their instructor. God hath touched his 
heart, and he proposeth laying aside the vanities of the 
world to become a brother of our holy order ; which, if his 
good parts be matched with fitting docility and humility, 
he may one day live to adorn.” 

“My very venerable brother,” exclaimed old Father 
Niqjiolas, who came hobbling with a third summons to the 
Sub-Prior, “ 1 pray thee to hasten to our worshipful Lord 

* Note J. Good faith of the Borderers. 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 6 3 


Abbot. The holy patroness be with us ! never saw I Ab- 
bot of the House of Saint Mary’s in such consternation ; 
and yet I remember me well when Father Ingelram had 
the news of Flodden-field.” 

“I come, I come, venerable brother,” said Father Eus- 
tace — And having repeatedly ejaculated “ I come ! ” he at 
last went to the Abbot in good earnest 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH. 

It is not texts will do it — Church artillery 
Are silenced soon by real ordnance, 

And canons are but vain opposed to cannon. 

Go, coin your crosier, melt your church plate down, 

Bid the starved soldier banquet in your halls, 

And quaff your long-saved hogsheads — Turn them out, 

Thus primed with your good cheer, to guard your wall, 

And they will venture for’t. 

Old Play. 

The Abbot received his counsellor with a tremulous 
eagerness of welcome, which announced to the Sub-Prior 
an extreme ag’tation of spirits, and the utmost need of 
good counsel. There was neither mazer-dish nor standing- 
cup upon the little table, at the elbow of his huge chair of 
state; his beads alone lay there, and it seemed as if he had 
been telling them in his extremity of distress. Beside the 
beads was placed the mitre of the Abbot, of an antique 
form, and blazing with precious stones, and the rich and 
highly-embossed crosier rested against the same table. 

The Sacristan and old Father Nicholas had followed the 
Sub-Prior into the Abbot’s apartment, perhaps with the 
hope of learning something of the important matter which 
seemed to be in hand. — They were not mistaken ; for, 
after having ushered in the Sub-Prior, and being them- 
selves in -the act of retiring, the Abbot made them a signal 
to remain. 

“My brethren,” he said, “it is well known to you with 
what painful zeal we have overseen the weighty affairs of 
this house committed to our unworthy hand — your bread 
hath been given to you, and your water hath been sure — 
I have not wasted the revenues of the Convent on vain 
pleasures, as hunting or hawking, or in change of rich cope 
or alb, or in feasting idle bards and jesters, saving those 
who, according to old wont, were received in time of 


3 6 4 


THE MONASTERY. 


Christmas and Easter. Neither have I enriched either 
mine own relations nor strange women, at the expense of 
the patrimony.” 

“ There hath not been such a Lord Abbot,” said Father 
Nicholas, “to my knowledge, since the days of Abbot 
Ingelram who” 

At that portentous word, which always preluded a long 
story, the Abbot broke in. 

“ May God have mercy on his soul ! — we talk not of him 
now. — What I would know of ye, my brethren, is, whether 
I have, in your mind, faithfully discharged the duties of 
mine office ? ” 

“There has never been subject of complaint,” answered 
the Sub-Prior. 

The Sacristan, more diffuse, enumerated the various acts 
of indulgence and kindness which the mild government of 
Abbot Boniface had conferred on the brotherhood of Saint 
Mary’s — the indulgentice — the gratias — the biberes — the week- 
ly mess of boiled almonds — the enlarged accommodation of 
the refectory — the better arrangement of the cellarage — 
the improvement of the revenue of the Monastery — the 
diminution of the privations of the brethren. 

“You might have added, my brother,” said the Abbot, 
listening with melancholy acquiescence to the detail of his 
own merits, “that I caused to be built that curious screen, 
which secureth the cloisters from the northeast wind. — 
But all these things avail nothing — As we read in holy 
Maccabee, Capta est civitas per voluntatem Dei. It hath cost 
me no little thought, no common toil, to keep these 
weighty matters in such order as you have seen them — 
there was both barn and bin to be kept full — Infirmary, 
dormitory, guest-hall, and refectory, to be looked to — pro- 
cessions to be made, confessions to be heard, strangers to 
be entertained, Venice to be granted or refused ; and I war- 
rant me, when every one of you was asleep in your cell, 
the Abbot hath lain awake for a full hour by the bell, 
thinking how these matters might be ordered seemly and 
suitably.” 

“ May we ask, reverend my lord,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ what additional care has now been thrown upon you, 
since your discourse seems to point that way?” 

“Marry, this it is,” said the Abbot. “The talk is not 
now of biberes* or of caritas , or of boiled almonds, but of 

* Note K. Indulgences to the Monks. 


THE MONASTERY. 


365 


an English band coming against us from Hexham, com- 
manded by Sir John Foster ; nor is it of the screening 
us from the east wind, but how to escape Lord James 
Stewart, who cometh to lay waste and destroy with his 
heretic soldiers.” 

“ I thought that purpose had been broken by the feud 
between Semple and the Kennedies,” said the Sub-Prior, 
hastily. 

“They have accorded that matter at the expense of 
the Church as usual,” said the Abbot ; “ the Earl of Cas- 
silis is to have the teind-sheaves of his lands, which were 
given to the house of Crossraguel, and he has stricken 
hands with Stewart, who is now called Murray. — Prin - 
cipes convenerunt iinum adversus Dominum. — There are the 
letters.” 

The Sub- Prior took the letters, which had come by an 
express messenger from the Primate of Scotland, who still 
labored to uphold the tottering fabric of the system under 
which he was at length buried, and, stepping toward the 
lamp, read them with an air of deep and settled attention 
— the Sacristan and Father Nicholas looked as helplessly 
at each other as the denizens of the poultry-yard when the 
hawk soars over it. The Abbot seemed bowed down with 
the extremity of sorrowful apprehension, but kept his 
eye timorously fixed on the Sub-Prior, as if striving to 
catch some comfort from the expression of his counte- 
nance. When at length he beheld that, after a second in- 
tent perusal of the letters, he remained still silent and full 
of thought, he asked him in an anxious tone, “What is to 
be done ? ” 

“ Our duty must be done,” answered the Sub-Prior, 
“and the rest is in the hands of God.” 

“ Our duty — our duty ! ” answered the Abbot, impa- 
tiently ; “doubtless we are to do our duty ; but what is 
that duty ? or how will it serve us ? Will bell, book, and 
candle, drive back the English heretics ? or will Murray 
care for psalms and antiphonars ? or can I fight for the 
Ilalidome, like Judas Maccabeus, against those profane 
Nicanors? or send the Sacristan against this new Holo- 
fernes, to bring back his head in a basket ?” 

“True, my Lord Abbot,” said the Sub-Prior, “we can- 
not fight with carnal weapons, it is alike contrary to our 
habit and vow ; but we can die for our Convent and for our 
Order. Besides, we can arm those who will and can fight. 
The English are but few in number, trusting, as it would 


366 


THE MONASTERY. 


seem, that they will be joined by Murray, whose march 
has been interrupted. If Foster, with his Cumberland 
and Hexham bandits, ventures to march into Scotland, to 
pillage and despoil our House, we will levy our vassals 
and, I trust, shall be found strong enough to give him 
battle.” 

“ In the blessed name of Our Lady,” said the Abbot, 
“ think you that I am Petrus Eremita, to go forth the 
leader of an host ?” 

“ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “let some man skilled in 
war lead our people — there is Julian Avenel, an approved 
soldier.” 

“ But a scoffer, a debauched person, and, in brief, a man 
of Belial,” quoth the Abbot. 

“ Still,” said the monk, “we must use his ministry in 
that to which he has been brought up. We can guerdon 
him richly, and indeed I already know the price of his 
service. The English, it is expected, will presently set 
forth, hoping here to seize upon Piercie Shafton, whose 
refuge being taken with us, they make the pretext of this 
unheard-of inroad.” 

“ Is it even so ?” said the Abbot ; “ I never judged that 
his body of satin and his brain of feathers boded us much 
good.” 

“Yet we must have his assistance, if possible,” said the 
Sub-Prior; “he may interest in our behalf the great Pier- 
cie, of whose friendship he boasts, and that good and 
faithful Lord may break Foster’s purpose. I will despatch 
the jack man after him with all speed. Chiefly, however, I 
trust to the military spirit of the land, which will not suffer 
peace to be easily broken on the frontier. Credit me, my 
lord, it will bring to our side the hands of many, whose 
hearts may have gone astray after strange doctrines. The 
great chiefs and barons will be ashamed to let the vassals 
of peaceful monks fight unaided against the old enemies 
of Scotland.” 

“ It may be,” said the Abbot, “that Foster will wait for 
Murray, whose purpose hitherward is but delayed for a 
short space.” 

“ By the rood, he will not,” said the Sub-Prior; “we 
know this Sir John Foster — a pestilent heretic, he will 
long to destroy the Church — born a Borderer, he will 
thirst to plunder her of her wealth — a Border-warden, he 
will be eager to ride in Scotland. There are too many 
causes to urge him on. If he joins with Murray, he will 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 6 7 


have at best but an auxiliary’s share of the spoil — if he 
comes hither before him, he will reckon on the whole har- 
vest of depredation as his own. Julian Avene! also has, as 
I have heard, some spite against Sir John Foster ; they will 
fight, when they meet, with double determination. Sac- 
ristan, send for our bailiff. Where is the roll of fencible 
men liable to do suit and service to the Halidome ? Send 
off to the Baron of Meigallot ; he can raise threescore 
horse and better — Say to him the Monastery will com- 
pound with him for the customs of his bridge, which have 
been in controversy, if he will show himself a friend at 
such a point. And now, my lord, let us compute our pos- 
sible numbers, and those of the enemy, that human blood 
be not spilled in vain — Let us therefore calculate ” 

“My brain is dizzied with the emergency,” said the poor 
Abbot — “ I am not, I think, more a coward than others, 
so far as my own person is concerned ; but speak to me of 
marching and collecting soldiers, and calculating forces, 
and you may as well tell of it to the youngest novice of a 
nunnery. But my resolution is taken. Brethren,” he said, 
rising up and coming forward with that dignity which his 
comely person enabled him to assume, “hear for the last 
time the voice of your Abbot Boniface. I have done for 
you the best that I could ; in quieter times I had perhaps 
done better, for it was for quiet that I sought the cloister, 
which has been to me a place of turmoil, as much as if I 
had sat in the receipt of custom, or ridden forth as the 
leader of an armed host. But now matters turn worse 
and worse, and I, as I grow old, am less able to struggle 
with them. Also, it becomes me not to hold a place, where- 
of the duties, through my default or misfortune, may be 
but imperfectly filled by me. Wherefore I have resolved 
to demit this mine high office, so that the order of these 
matters may presently devolve upon Father Eustace here 
present, our well-beloved Sub-Prior ; and I now rejoice 
that he hath not been provided according to his merits 
elsewhere, seeing that I well hope he will succeed to the 
mitre and staff which it is my present purpose to lay down.” 

“ In the name of Our Lady, do nothing hastily, my lord ! ” 
said Father Nicholas — “I do remember that when the 
worthy Abbot Ingelram, being in his ninetieth year— for I 
warrant you he could remember when Benedict the thir- 
teenth was deposed — and being ill at ease and bedrid, the 
brethren rounded in his ear that he were better resign his 
office. And what said he. being a pleasant man ? marry, 


3 68 


THE MONA SEEK Y. 


that while he could crook his little finger he would keep 
hold of the crosier with it.” 

The Sacristan also strongly remonstrated against the reso- 
lution of his Superior, and set down the insufficiency he 
pleaded to the native modesty of his disposition. The 
Abbot listened in downcast silence ; even flattery could 
not win his ear. 

Father Eustace took a nobler tone with his disconcerted 
and dejected Superior. “ My Lord Abbot,” he said, “ if I 
have been silent concerning the virtues with which you 
have governed this house, do not think that I am unaware 
of them. I know that no man ever brought to your high 
office a more sincere wish to do well to all mankind ; and 
if your rule has not been marked with the bold lines which 
sometimes distinguished your spiritual predecessors, their 
faults have equally been strangers to your character.” 

“ I did not believe,” said the Abbot, turning his looks to 
Father Eustace with some surprise, “that you, father, of 
all men, would have done me this justice.” 

“In your absence,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I have even 
done it more fully. Do not lose the good opinion which 
all men entertain of you, by renouncing your office when 
your care is most needed.” 

“ But, my brother,” said the Abbot, “I leave a more able 
in my place.” 

“That you do not,” said Eustace ; “because it is not 
necessary you should resign, in order to possess the use of 
whatever experience or talent I may be accounted master 
of. I have been long enough in this profession to know 
that the individual qualities which any of us may have, are 
not his own, but the property of the Community, and only 
so far useful when they promote the general advantage. 
If you care not in person, my lord, to deal with this trouble- 
some matter, let me implore you to go instantly to Edin- 
burgh, and make what friends you can in our behalf, while 
I in your absence will, as Sub-Prior, do my duty in defence 
of the Halidome. If I succeed, may the honor and praise 
be yours, and if I fail, let the disgrace and shame be mine 
own.” 

The Abbot mused for a space, and then replied — “ No, 
Father Eustatius, you shall not conquer me by your gen- 
erosity^ In times like these, this house must have a stronger 
pilotage than my weak hands afford ; and he who steers 
the vessel must be chief of the crew. Shame were it to 
accept the praise of other men’s labors ; and, in my poor 


THE MONASTERY. 


3 6 9 


mind, all the praise which can be bestowed on him who 
undertakes a task so perilous and perplexing, is a meed 
beneath his merits. Misfortune to him would deprive 
him of an iota of it ! Assume, therefore, your authority 
to-night, and proceed in the preparations you judge neces- 
sary. Let the Chapter be summoned to-morrow after we 
have heard mass, and all shall be ordered as I have told 
you. Benedicite, my brethren ! — peace be with you ! — May 
the new Abbot-expectant sleep as sound as he who is about 
to resign his mitre.” 

They retired, affected even to tears. The good Abbot 
had shown a point of his character to which they were 
strangers. Even Father Eustace had held his spiritual 
Superior hitherto as a good-humored, indolent, self-indul- 
gent man, whose chief merit was the absence of gross 
faults ; so that this sacrifice of power to a sense of duty, 
even if a little alloyed by the meaner motives of fear 
and apprehended difficulties, raised him considerably in 
the Sub-Prior’s estimation. He even felt an aversion to 
profit by the resignation of the Abbot Boniface, and in a 
manner to rise on his ruins ; but this sentiment did not 
long contend with those which led him to recollect higher 
considerations. It could not be denied that Boniface was 
entirely unfit for his situation in the present crisis ; and the 
Sub-Prior felt that he himself, acting merely as a dele- 
gate, could not well take the decisive measures which the 
time required ; the weal of the Community therefore de- 
manded his elevation. If, besides, there crept in a feeling 
of a high dignity obtained, and the native exultation of 
a haughty spirit called to contend with the imminent dan- 
gers attached to a post of such distinction, these senti- 
ments were so cunningly blended and amalgamated with 
others of a more disinterested nature, that, as the Sub- 
Prior himself was unconscious of their agency, we, who 
have a regard for him, are not solicitous to detect it. 

The Abbot elect carried himself with more dignity than 
formerly, when giving such directions as the pressing cir- 
cumstances of the times required ; and those who ap- 
proached him could perceive an unusual kindling of his 
falcon eye, and an unusual flush upon his pale and faded 
cheek. With briefness and precision he wrote and dic- 
tated various letters to different barons, acquainting them 
with the meditated invasion of the Halidome by the Eng- 
lish, and conjuring them to lend aid and assistance as in 
a common cause. The temptation of advantage was held 
24 


370 


THE MONASTERY. 


out to those whom he judged less sensible of the cause 
of honor, and all were urged by the motives of patriotism 
and ancient animosity to the English. The time had been 
when no such exhortations would have been necessary. 
But so essential was Elizabeth’s aid to the reformed party 
in Scotland, and so strong was that party almost every- 
where, that there was reason to believe a great many would 
observe neutrality on the present occasion, even if they did 
not go the length of uniting with the English against the 
Catholics. 

When Father Eustace considered the number of the im- 
mediate vassals of the Church, whose aid he might legally 
command, his heart sunk at the thoughts of ranking them 
under the banner of the fierce and profligate Julian Avenel. 

“Were the young enthusiast Halbert Glendinning to be 
found,” thought Father Eustace in his anxiety, “I would 
have risked the battle under his leading, young as he is, 
and with better hope of God’s blessing. But the bailiff is 
now too infirm, nor know I a chief of name whom I might 
trust in this important matter better than this Avenel.” — 
He touched a bell which stood on the table, and com- 
manded Christie of the Clinthill to be brought before him. 

• — “ Thou owest me a life,” said he to that person on his 
entrance, “and I may do thee another good turn if thou 
be’st sincere with me.” 

Christie had already drained two standing-cups of wine, 
•which would, on another occasion, have added to the in- 
solence of his familiarity. But at present there was some- 
thing in the augmented dignity of manner of Father Eus- 
tace, which imposed a restraint on him. Yet his answers 
partook of his usual character of undaunted assurance. 
He professed himself willing to return a true answer to all 
inquiries. 

“ Has the Baron (so styled) of Avenel any friendship with 
Sir John Foster, Warden of the West Marches of England?” 

“ Such friendship as is between the wild-cat and the ter- 
rier,” replied the rider. 

“Will he do battle with him should they meet?” 

“ As surely,” answered Christie, “ as ever cock fought on 
Shrovetide-even.” 

“And would he fight with Foster in the Church’s quar- 
rel ? ” 

“ On any quarrel, or upon no quarrel whatever,” replied 
the jackman. 

“We will then write to him, letting him know, that if 


TIjE monastery. 


371 


upon occasion of an apprehended incursion by Sir John 
Foster he will agree to join his force with ours, he shall 
lead our men, and be gratified for doing so to the extent 
of his wish. Yet one word more — Thou didst say thou 
couldst find out where the English knight Piercie Shafton 
has this day lied to ? ” 

“ That I can, and bring him back too, by fair means or 
force, as best likes your reverence.” 

“ No force must be used upon him. Within what time 
wilt thou find him out?” 

“ Within thirty hours, so he have not crossed the Lothian 
Firth — If it is to do you a pleasure, I will set off directly, 
and wind him as a sleuth-dog tracks the moss-trooper,” an- 
swered Christie. 

“ Bring him hither then, and thou wilt deserve good at 
our hands, which I may soon have free means of bestowing 
on thee.” 

“ Thanks to your reverence, I put myself in your rever- 
ence’s hands. We of the spear and snaffle walk something 
recklessly through life ; but if a man were worse than he 
is, your reverence knows he must live, and that’s not to 
be done without shifting, I trow.” 

“ Peace, sir, and begone on thine errand — thou shalt 
have a letter from us to Sir Piercie.” 

Christie made two steps toward the door ; then turning 
back and hesitating, like one who would make an imper- 
tinent pleasantry if he dared, he asked what he was to do 
with the wench Mysie Happer whom the Southron knight 
had carried off with him. 

“ Am I to bring her hither, please your reverence ? ” 

“ Hither, you malapert knave?” said the churchman; 
“remember you to whom you speak ? ” 

“No offence meant,” replied Christie ; “but if such is 
not your will, I would carry her to Avenel Castle, where 
a well-favored wench was never unwelcome.” 

“ Bring the unfortunate girl to her father’s, and break 
no scurril jests here,” said the Sub-Prior — “ See that thou 
guide her in all safety and honor.” 

“In safety, surely,” said the rider, “and in such honor 
as her outbreak has left her. I bid your reverence fare- 
well, I must be on horse before cock-crow.” 

“ What, in the dark ! — how knowest thou which way to 
go ? ” 

“ I tracked the knight’s horse tread as far as near to the 
ford, as we rode along together,” said Christie, “and I 


37 2 


THE MONASTERY. 


observed the track turn to the northward. He is for Edin- 
burgh, I will warrant you — so soon as daylight comes I 
will be on the road again. It is a kenspeckle hoof-mark, 
for the shoe was made by old Eckie of Cannobie — I would 
swear to the curve of the cawker.” So saying he departed. 

“ Hateful necessity,” said Father Eustace, looking after 
him, “that obliges us to use such implements as these ! 
But, assailed as we are on all sides, and by all conditions 
of men, what alternative is left us ? But now let me to 
my most needful task.” 

The Abbot elect accordingly sat down to write letters, 
arrange orders, and take upon him the whole charge of an 
institution which tottered to its fall, with the same spirit 
of proud and devoted fortitude wherewith the commander 
of a fortress, reduced nearly to the last extremity, calcu- 
lates what means remain to him to protract the fatal hour 
of successful storm. In the meanwhile Abbot Boniface, 
having given a few natural sighs to the downfall of the 
pre-eminence he had so long enjoyed amongst his brethren, 
fell fast asleep, leaving the whole cares and toils of office 
to his assistant and successor. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH. 

And when he came to broken briggs. 

He slack’d his bow and swam ; 

And when he came to grass growing, 

Set down his feet and ran. 

Gil Morrice. 

We return to Halbert Glendinning, who, as our readers 
may remember, took the high road to Edinburgh. His in- 
tercourse with the preacher Henry Warden, from whom he 
received a letter at the moment of his deliverance, had 
been so brief, that he had not even learned the name of 
the nobleman to whose care he was recommended. Some- 
thing like a name had been spoken indeed, but he had 
only comprehended that he was to meet the chief advanc- 
ing toward the south, at the head of a party of horse. 
When day dawned on his journey, he was in the same un- 
certainty. A better scholar would have been informed by 
the address of the letter, but Halbert had not so far prof- 
ited by Father Eustace’s lessons as to be able to decipher 
it. His mother-wit taught him that he must not, in such 


THE MONA STER Y. 


373 


uncertain times, be too hasty in asking information of any 
one ; and when, after a long day’s journey, night surprised 
him near a little village, he began to be dubious and anx- 
ious concerning the issue of his journey. 

In a poor country, hospitality is generally exercised 
freely, and Halbert, when he requested a night’s quarters, 
did nothing either degrading or extraordinary. The old 
woman, to whom he made this request, granted it the more 
readily, that she thought she saw some resemblance between 
Halbert and her son Saunders, who had been killed in one 
of the frays so common in the time. It is true Saunders 
was a short square-made fellow, with red hair and a freck- 
led face, and somewhat bandy-legged, whereas the stranger 
was of a brown complexion, tall, and remarkably well made. 
Nevertheless, the widow was clear that there existed a 
general resemblance betwixt her guest and Saunders, and 
kindly pressed him to share of her evening cheer. A ped- 
ler, a man of about forty years old, was alHo her guest, 
who talked with great feeling of the misery of pursuing 
such a profession as his in the time of war and tumult. 

“We think much of knights and soldiers,” said he; 
“but the pedder-coffe who travels the land has need of 
more courage than them all. 1 am sure he maun face 
mair risk, God help him. Here have I come this length, 
trusting the godly Earl of Murray would be on his march 
to the Borders, for he w r as to have guestened with the 
Baron of Avenel ; and instead of that comes news that he 
has gone westlandways about some tuilzie in Ayrshire. 
And what to do I wot not ; for if I go to the south without 
a safeguard, the next bonny rider I meet might ease me of 
sack and pack, and maybe of my life to boot ; and then, if 
I try to strike across the moors, I may be as ill off before 
I can join myself to that good Lord’s company.” 

No one was quicker at catching a hint than Halbert 
Glendinning. He said he himself had a desire to go west- 
ward. The pedler looked at him with a very doubtful air, 
when the old dame, who peThaps, thought her young guest 
resembled the umquhile Saunders, not only in his looks, 
but in a certain pretty turn to slight-of-hand, which the 
defunct was supposed to have possessed, tipped him the 
wink, and assured the pedler he need have no doubt that 
her young cousin was a true man. 

“Cousin!” said the pedler, “I thought you said this 
youth had been a stranger.” 

“ 111 hearing makes ill rehearsing,” said the landlady ; 


374 


THE MONASTERY. 


“he is a stranger to me by eyesight, but that does not 
make him a stranger to me by blood, more especially see- 
ing his likeness to my son Saunders, poor bairn.” 

The pedler’s scruples and jealousies being thus removed, 
or at least silenced, the travellers agreed that they would 
proceed in company together the next morning by day- 
break, the pedler acting as a guide to Glendinning, and 
the youth as a guard to the pedler, until they should fall 
in with Murray’s detachment of horse. It would appear 
that the landlady never doubted what was to be the event 
of this compact, for, taking Glendinning aside, she charged 
him “ to be moderate with the puir body, but at all events, 
not to forget to take a piece of black sey, to make the auld 
wife a new rokelay.” Halbert laughed and took his leave. 

It did not a little appal the pedler, when, in the midst of 
a black heath, the young man told him the nature of the 
commission fvith which their hostess had charged him. 
He took heart, however, upon seeing the open, frank, and 
friendly demeanor of the youth, and vented his exclama- 
tions on the ungrateful old traitress. “ I gave her,” he 
said, “yester-e’en nae farther gane, a yard of that very 
black sey, to make her a couvre-chef ; but I see it is ill 
done to teach the cat the way to the kirn.” 

Thus set at ease on the intentions of his companion (for 
in those happy days the worst was always to be expected 
from a stranger), the pedler acted as Halbert’s guide over 
moss and moor, over hill and many a dale, in such a direc- 
tion as might best lead them toward the route of Murray’s 
party. At length they arrived upon the side of an eminence, 
which commanded a distant prospect over a tract of sav- 
age and desolate moorland, marshy and waste — an alter- 
nate change of shingly hill and level morass, only varied 
by blue stagnant pools of water. A road scarcely marked 
winded like a serpent through the wilderness, and the 
pedler, pointing to it, said — “The road from Edinburgh to 
Glasgow. Here we must wait, and if Murray and his train 
be not already passed by, we shall soon see trace of them, 
unless some new purpose shall have altered their resolution ; 
for in these blessed days no man, were he the nearest the 
throne, as the Earl of Murray may be, knows when he lays 
his head on his pillow at night where it is to lie upon the 
following even.” 

They paused accordingly, and sat down, the pedler cau- 
tiously using for a seat the box which contained his treas- 
ures, and not concealing from his companion that he wore 


THE MONASTERY. 


375 

under his cloak a pistolet hanging at his belt in case of 
need. He was courteous, however, and offered Halbert a 
share of the provisions which he carried about him for re- 
freshment. They were of the coarsest kind — oat-bread 
baked into cakes, oatmeal slaked with cold water, an onion 
or two, and a morsel of smoked ham, completed the feast. 
But such as it was, no Scotsman of the time, had his rank 
been much higher than that of Glendinning, would have 
refused to share in it, especially as the pedler produced, 
with a mysterious air, a tup’s horn, which he carried slung 
from his shoulders, and which, when its contents were ex- 
amined, produced to each party a clam-shell full of excel- 
lent usquebaugh — a liquor strange to Halbert, for the 
strong waters known in the south of Scotland came from 
France, and in fact such were but rarely used. The pedler 
recommended it as excellent, said he had procured it in his 
last visit to the braes of Doune, where he had securely 
traded under the safe-conduct of the Laird of Buchanan. 
He also set an example to Halbert, by devoutly emptying 
the cup “to the speedy downfall of Antichrist.” 

Their conviviality was scarce ended, ere a rising dust was 
seen on the road of which they commanded the prospect, 
and half-a-score of horsemen were dimly descried advanc- 
ing at considerable speed, their casks glancing, and the 
points of their spears twinkling as they caught a glimpse 
of the sun. 

“These,” said the pedler, “must be the out-scourers of 
Murray’s party ; let us lie down in the peat-hag, and keep 
ourselves out of sight.” 

“ And why so ? ” said Halbert ; “ let us rather go down 
and make a signal to them.” 

“ God forbid ! ” replied the pedler ; “ do you ken so ill 
the customs of our Scottish nation ? That plump of spears 
that are spurring on so fast are doubtless commanded by 
some wild kinsman of Morton, or some such daring fear- 
nothing as neither regards God nor man. It is their busi- 
ness, if they meet with any enemies, to pick quarrels and 
clear the way of them ; and the chief knows nothing of 
what happens, coming up with his more discreet and 
moderate friends, it may be a full mile in the rear. Were 
we to go near these lads of the laird’s belt, your letter 
would do you little good, and my pack would do me muckle 
black ill ; they would tirl every steek of claithes from our 
back, fling us into a moss-hag with a stone at our heels, 
naked as the hour that brought us into this cumbered and 


376 


THE MONASTERY. 


sinful world, and neither Murray nor any other man evei 
the wiser. But if ho did come to ken of it, what might he 
help it ? — it would be accounted a mere mistake, and there 
were all the moan made. O credit me, youth, that when 
men draw cold steel on each other in their native country, 
they neither can nor may dwell deeply on the offences of 
those whose swords are useful to them.” 

They suffered, therefore, the vanguard, as it might be 
termed, of the Earl of Murray's host to pass forward ; and 
it was not long until a denser cloud of dust began to arise 
to the northward. 

“Now,” said the pedler, “let us hurry down the hill ; for 
to tell the truth,” said he, dragging Halbert along earnestly 
“a Scottish noble's march is like a serpent — the head is 
furnished with fangs, and the tail hath its sting ; the only 
harmless point of access is the main body.” 

“ I will hasten as fast as you,” said the youth ; “but tell 
me why the rearward of such an army should be as dan- 
gerous as the van ? ” 

“ Because, as the vanguard consists of their picked wild 
desperates, resolute for mischief, such as neither^ fear God 
nor regard their fellow-creatures, but understand them- 
selves bound to hurry from the road whatever is displeas- 
ing to themselves, so the rear-guard consists of mis-proud 
serving-men, who, being in charge of the baggage, take 
care to amend by their exactions upon travelling-merchants 
and others, their own thefts on their master’s property. 
You will hear the advanced enfans perdus,&s the French 
call them, and so they are indeed, namely, children of the 
fall, singing unclean and fulsome ballads of sin and harlot- 
rie. And then will come on the middle-ward, when you 
will hear the canticles and psalms sung by the reforming 
nobles, and the gentry, and honest and pious clergy, by 
whom they are accompanied. And last of all, you will find 
in the rear a legend of godless lackies, and palfreniers, and 
horse-boys, talking of nothing but dicing, drinking, and 
drabbing.” 

As the pedler spoke, they had reached the side of the 
high road and Murray’s main body was in sight, consisting 
of about three hundred horse, marching with great regu- 
larity, and in a closely compacted body. Some of the 
troopers wore the liveries of their masters, but this was not 
common. Most of them were dressed in such colors as 
chance dictated. But the majority, being clad in blue 
cloth, and the whole armed with cuirass and back-plate, 


THE MONASTERY. 


377 


with sleeves of mail, gauntlets, and poldroons, and either 
mailed hose or strong jack-boots, they had something of 
a uniform appearance. Many of the leaders were clad in 
complete armor, and all in a certain half military dress, 
which no man of quality in those disturbed times ever felt 
himself sufficiently safe to abandon. 

The foremost of this party immediately rode up to the 
pedler and to Halbert Glendinning, and demanded of them 
who they were. The pedler told his story, the young 
Glendinning exhibited his letter, which a gentleman car- 
ried to Murray. In an instant after, the word “Halt!” 
was given through the squadron, and at once the onward 
heavy tramp, which seemed the most distinctive attribute 
of the body, ceased, and was heard no more. The com- 
mand was announced that the troop should halt here for 
an hour to refresh themselves and their horses. The ped- 
ler was assured of safe protection, and accommodated with 
the use of a baggage horse. But at the same time he was 
ordered into the rear ; a command which he reluctantly 
obeyed, and not without wringing pathetically the hand of 
Halbert as he separated from him. 

The young heir of Glendearg was in the meanwhile 
conducted to a plot of ground more raised, and therefore 
drier than the rest of the moor. Here a carpet was flung 
on the ground by way of table-cloth, and around it sat the 
•leaders of the party, partaking of an entertainment as 
coarse with relation to their rank, as that which Glendin- 
ning had so lately shared. Murray himself rose as he 
came forward, and advanced a step to meet him. 

This celebrated person had in his appearance, as well as 
in his mind, much of the admirable qualities of James 
V. his father. Had not the stain of illegitimacy rested 
upon his birth, he would have filled the Scottish throne 
with as much honor as any of the Stuart race. But His- 
tory, while she acknowledges his high talents, and much 
that was princely, nay, royal, in his conduct, cannot for- 
get that ambition led him farther than honor or loyalty 
warranted. Brave among the bravest, fair in presence and 
in favor, skilful to manage the most intricate affairs, to at- 
tach to himself those who were doubtful, to stun and over- 
whelm, by the suddenness and intrepidity of his enter- 
prises, those who were resolute in resistance, he attained, 
and as to personal merit certainly deserved, the highest 
place in the kingdom- But he abused, under the influence 
of strong temptation, the opportunities which his sister 


378 


THE MONASTERY. 


Mary’s misfortunes and imprudence threw in his way ; he 
supplanted his sovereign and benefactress in her power, 
and his history affords us one of those mixed characters, 
in which principle was so often sacrificed to policy, that 
we must condemn the statesman while we pity and regret 
the individual. Many events in his life gave likelihood to 
the charge that he himself aimed at the crown ; and it is 
too true, that he countenanced the fatal expedient of es- 
tablishing an English, that is, a foreign and a hostile in- 
terest, in the councils of Scotland. But his death may be 
received as an atonement for his offences, and may serve to 
show how much more safe is the person of a real patriot, 
than that of the mere head of a faction, who 'is accounted 
answerable for the offences of his meanest attendants. 

When Murray approached, the young rustic was naturally 
abashed at the dignity of his presence. The commanding 
form and the countenance to which high and important 
thoughts were familiar, the features which bore the resem- 
blance of Scotland’s long line of kings, were well calcu- 
lated to impress awe and reverence. His dress had little 
to distinguish him from the high-born nobles and barons 
by whom he was attended. A buff-coat, richly embroid- 
ered with silken lace, supplied the place of armor ; and a 
massive gold chain, with its medal, hung round his neck. 
His black velvet bonnet was decorated with a string of 
large and fair pearls, and with a small tufted feather ; a 
long heavy sword was girt to his side, as the familiar com- 
panion of his hand. He wore gilded spurs on his boots, 
and these completed his equipment. 

“ This letter,” he said, “ is from the godly preacher of the 
Word, Henry Warden, young man ? is it not so ? ” Hal- 
bert answered in the affirmative. “ And he writes to us, it 
would seem, in some strait, and refers us to you for the 
circumstances. Let us know, I pray you, how things stand 
with him.” 

In some perturbation Halbert Glendinning gave an ac- 
count of the circumstances which had accompanied the 
preacher’s imprisonment. When he came to the discus- 
sion of the hand-fasting engagement, he was struck with 
the ominous and displeased expression of Murray’s brows, 
and contrary to all prudential and politic rule, seeing some- 
thing was wrong, yet not well aware what that something 
was, had almost stopped short in his narrative. 

“What ails the fool ?” said the Earl, drawing his dark- 
red eyebrows together, while the same dusky glow kindled 


THE MONASTERY. 379 

on his brow — ‘‘hast thou not learned to tell a true tale with* 
out stammering ? ” 

“So please you,” answered Halbert, with considerable 
address, “ I have never before spoken in such a presence.” 

_ “ He seems a modest youth,” said Murray, turning to 
his next attendant, “ and yet one who in a good cau§e will 
neither fear friend nor foe. Speak on, friend, and speak 
freely.” 

Halbert then gave an account of the quarrel betwixt 
Julian Avenel and the preacher, which the Earl, biting his 
lip the while, compelled himself to listen to as a thing of 
indifference. At first he appeared even to take the part of 
the Baron. 

“ Henry Warden,” he said, “is too hot in his zeal. The 
law both of God and man maketh allowance for certain al- 
liances, though not strictly formal, and the issue of such 
may succeed.” 

This general declaration he expressed, accompanying it 
with a glance around upon the few followers who were 
present at this interview. The most of them answered : 
“ There is no contravening that ; ” but one or two looked 
on the ground, and were silent. Murray then turned again 
to Glendinning, commanding him to say what next 
chanced, and not to omit any particular. When he men- 
tioned the manner in which JuTan had cast from him his 
concubine, Murray drew a deep breath, set his teeth hard, 
and laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Casting his 
eyes once more around the circle, which was now' aug- 
mented by one or two of the reformed preachers, he 
seemed to devour his rage in silence, and again command- 
ed Halbert to proceed. When he came to describe how 
Warden had been dragged to a dungeon, the Earl seemed 
to have found the point at which he might give vent to his 
own resentment, secure of the sympathy and approbation 
of all who were present. “Judge you,” he said, looking to 
those around him, “judge you, my peers, and noble gen- 
tlemen of Scotland, betwixt me and this Julian Avenel — 
he hath broken his own word, and hath violated my safe- 
conduct — and judge you also, my reverend brethren, he 
hath put his hand forth upon a preacher of the gospel, and 
perchance may sell his blood to the worshippers of Anti- 
christ.! ” 

“ Let him die the death of a traitor,” said the secular 
chiefs, “and let his tongue be struck through with the hang- 
man’s fiery iron to avenge his perjury ! ” 


380 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Let him go down to his place with Baal’s priests,” said 
the preachers, “and be his ashes cast into Tophet !” 

Murray heard them with the smile of expected revenge ; 
yet it is probable that the brutal treatment of the female, 
whose circumstances somewhat resembled those of the 
Earl’s own mother, had its share in the grim smile which 
curled his sun-burnt cheek and its haughty lip. To Hal- 
bert Glendinning, when his narrative was finished, he spoke 
with great kindness. 

“ He is a bold and gallant youth,” said he to those around, 
“and formed of the stuff which becomes a bustling time. 
There are periods when men’s spirits shine bravely through 
them. I will know something more of him.” 

He questioned him more particularly concerning the 
Baron of Avenel’s probable forces — the strength of his 
castle — the dispositions of his next heir, and this brought 
necessarily forward the sad history of his brother’s daugh- 
ter, Mary Avenel, which was told with an embarrassment 
that did not escape Murray. 

“Ha ! Julian Avenel,” he said, “and do you provoke my. 
resentment, when you have so much more reason to depre- 
cate my justice ! I knew Walter Avenel, a true Scotsman 
and a good soldier. Our sister, the Queen, must right his 
daughter ; and were her land restored, she would be a fit- 
ting bride to some brave man, who may better merit our 
favor than the traitor Julian.” — Then looking at Halbert, 
he said, “ Art thou of gentle blood, young man?” 

Halbert, with a faltering and uncertain voice, began to 
speak of his distant pretensions to claim a descent from 
the ancient Glendowynes of Galloway, when Murray in- 
terrupted him with a smile. 

“Nay — nay — leave pedigrees to bards and heralds. In 
our days each man is the son of his own deeds. The glori- 
ous light of reformation hath shone alike on prince and 
peasant ; and peasant as well as prince may be illustrated 
by fighting in its defence. It is a stirring world, where all 
may advance themselves who. have stout hearts and strong 
arms. Tell me frankly why thou hast left thy father’s 
house ? ” 

Halbert Glendinning made a frank confession of his 
duel with Piercie Shafton, and mentioned his supposed 
death. 

“ By my hand,” said Murray, “thou art a bold sparrow- 
hawk, to match thee so early with such a kite as Piercie 
Shafton. Queen Elizabeth would give her glove filled with 


THE MONASTERY. 381 

gold crowns to know that meddling coxcomb to be under 
the sod. — Would she not, Morton ?” 

“ Ay, by my word, and esteem her glove a better gift 
than the crowns,” replied Morton, “which few Border lads 
like this fellow will esteem just valuation.” 

“ But what shall we do with this young homicide ? ” said 
Murray ; “ what will our preachers say ? ” 

“Tell them of Moses and of Benaiah,” said Morton ; “it 
is but the smiting of an Egyptian when all is said out.” 

“ Let it be so,” said Murray, laughing ; “ but we will 
bury the tale, as the prophet did the body, in the sand. 
I will take care of this swankie. — Be near to us, Glendin- 
ning, since that is thy name. We retain thee as a squire 
of our household. The master of our horse will see thee 
fully equipped and armed.” 

During the expedition which he was now engaged in, 
Murray found several opportunities of putting Glendin- 
ning’s courage and presence of mind to the test, and he 
began to rise so rapidly in his esteem, that those who knew 
the Earl considered the youth’s fortune as certain. One 
step only was wanting to raise him to a still higher degree 
of confidence and favor — it was the abjuration of the Popish 
religion. The ministers who attended upon Murray, and 
formed his chief support amongst the people, found an 
easy convert in Halbert Glendinning, who, from his earli- 
est days, had never felt much devotion toward the Catholic 
faith, and who listened eagerly to more reasonable views 
of religion. By thus adopting the faith of his master, he 
rose higher in his favor, and was constantly about his per- 
son during his prolonged stay in the west of Scotland, 
which the intractability of those whom the Earl had to deal 
with protracted from day to day, and week to week. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH. 

Faint the din of battle bray’d 
Distant down the hollow wind ; 

War and terror fled before, 

Wounds and death were left behind. 

Penrose. 

The autumn of the year was well advanced, when the 
Earl of Morton, one morning, rather unexpectedly, entered 
the ante-chamber of Murray, in which Halbert Glendin- 
ning was in waiting. 


3 82 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Call your master, Halbert,” said the Earl ; “ I have 
news for him from Teviotdale ; and for you, too, Glendin- 
ning — News ! news ! my Lord of Murray ! ” he exclaimed, 
at the door of the Earl’s bedroom ; “come forth instantly.” 
The Earl appeared, and greeted his ally, demanding eagerly 
his tidings. 

“ I have had a sure friend with me from the south,” said 
Morton; “he has been at Saint Mary’s Monastery, and 
brings important tidings.” 

“Of what complexion?” said Murray, “and can you 
trust the bearer ? ” 

“ He is faithful, on my life,” said Morton ; “ I wish all 
around your Lordship may prove equally so.” 

“At what, and whom, do you point ?” demanded Murray. 

“Here is the Egyptian of trusty Halbert Glendinning, 
our Southland Moses, come alive again, and flourishing, 
gay and bright as ever, in that Teviotdale Goshen, the 
Halidome of Kennaquhair.” 

“ What mean you, my lord ? ” said Murray. 

“ Only that your new henchman has put a false tale upon 
you. Piercie Shafton is alive and well ; by the same token, 
that the gull is thought to be detained there by love to a 
miller’s daughter, who roamed the country with him in 
disguise.” 

“Glendinning,” said Murray, bending his brow into his 
darkest frown, “thou hast not, I trust, dared to bring me a 
lie in thy mouth, in order to win my confidence ?” 

“ My lord,” said Halbert, “ I am incapable of a lie. I 
should choke on one were my life to require that I pro- 
nounced it. I say, that this sword of my father was through 
the body — the point came out behind his back — the hilt 
pressed upon his breast-bone. And 1 will plunge it as 
deep in the body of any one who shall dare to charge me 
with falsehood.” 

“ How, fellow ! ” said Morton, “ wouldst thou beard a 
nobleman ? ” 

“ Be silent, Halbert,” said Murray, “and you, my Lord 
of Morton, forbear him. I see truth written on his brow.” 

“ I wish the inside of the manuscript may correspond 
with the superscription,” replied his more suspicious ally. 
“Look to it, my lord, you will one day lose your life by 
too mifbh confidence.” 

“ And you will lose your friends by being too readily 
suspicious,” answered Murray. “Enough of this — let me 
hear thy tidings.” 


THE MONASTERY. 383 

“ Sir John Foster,” said Morton, “ is about to send a 
party into Scotland to waste the Halidome.” 

“ How ! without waiting my presence and permission ? ” 
said Murray — “he is mad — will he come as an enemy into 
the Queen’s country?” 

“ He has Elizabeth’s express orders,” answered Morton, 
“and they are not to be trifled with. Indeed, his march 
has been more than once projected and laid aside during 
the time we have been here, and has caused much alarm at 
Kennaquhair. Boniface, the old Abbot, has resigned, and 
whom, think you, they have chosen in his place?” 

“No one, surely,” said Murray; “they would presume 
to hold no election until the Queen’s pleasure and mine 
were known ? ” 

Morton shrugged his shoulders — “ They have chosen 
the pupil of old Cardinal Beatoun, that wily, determined 
champion of Rome, the bosom friend of our busy Primate 
of Saint Andrews. Eustace, late the Sub-Prior of Ken- 
naquhair, is now its abbot, and, like a second Pope Julius, 
is levying men and making musters to fight with Foster if 
he comes forward.” 

“We must prevent that meeting,” said Murray, hastily ; 
“ whichever party wins the day, it were a fatal encounter 
for us — Who commands the troop of the Abbot ?” 

“Our faithful old friend, Julian Avenel, nothing less,” 
answered Morton. 

“ Glendinning,” said Murray, “ sound trumpets to horse 
directly, and let all who love us get on horseback without 
delay — Yes, my lord, this were indeed a fatal dilemma. If 
we take part with our English friends, tlie country will cry 
shame on us — the very old wives will attack us with their 
rocks and spindles — the very stones of the street will rise up 
against us — we cannot set our face to such a deed of in- 
famy. And my sister, whose confidence I already have such 
difficulty in preserving, will altogether withdraw it from me. 
Then, were we to oppose the English Warden, Elizabeth 
would call it a protecting of her enemies, and what not, 
and we should lose her.” 

“ The she-dragon,” said Morton, “ is the best card in our 
pack ; and yet I would not willingly stand still and see 
English blades carve Scots flesh — What say you to loiter- 
ing by the way, marching far and easy for fear of spoiling 
our horses ? They might then fight dog fight bull, fight 
Abbot fight archer, and no one could blame us for what 
chanced when we were not present.” 


3^4 


THE MONASTERY. 


“All would blame us, James Douglas,” replied Murray, 
“we should lose both sides — we had better advance with 
the utmost celerity, and do what we can to keep the peace 
betwixt them — I would the nag that brought Piercie 
Shafton hither had broken his neck over the highest heuch 
in Northumberland ! — He is a proper coxcomb to make 
all this bustle about, and to occasion perhaps a national 
war ! ” 

“Had we known in time,” said Douglas, “we might 
have had him privily waited upon as he entered the Bor- 
ders ; there are strapping lads enough would have rid us 
of him for the lucre of his spur-whang.* But to the sad- 
dle, James Stuart, since so the phrase goes. J hear your 
trumpets sound to horse and away — we shall soon see 
which nag is best breathed.” 

Followed by a train of about three hundred well-mounted 
men-at-arms, these two powerful barons directed their 
course to Dumfries, and from thence eastward to Teviot- 
dale, marching at a rate which, as Morton had foretold, 
soon disabled a good many of their horses, so that when 
they approached the scene of expected action, there were 
not above two hundred of their train remaining in a body, 
and of these most were mounted on steeds w'hich had been 
sorely jaded. 

They had hitherto been amused and agitated by various 
reports concerning the advance of the English soldiers, and 
the degree of resistance which the Abbot w*as able to op- 
pose to them. But w r hen they were six or seven miles 
from Saint Mary’s of Kennaquhair, a gentleman of the 
country, whom Murray had summoned to attend him, and 
on whose intelligence he knew he could rely, arrived at 
the head of two or three servants, “bloody with spurring, 
fiery red with haste.” According to his report, Sir John 
Foster, after several times announcing, and as often de- 
laying, his intended incursion, had at last been so stung 
with the news that Piercie Shafton was openly residing 
within the Halidome, that he determined to execute the 
command of his mistress, which directed him, at every 
risk, to make himself master of the Euphuist’s person. 
The Abbot’s unceasing exertions had collected a body of 
men almost equal in number to those of the English 
Warden, but less practised in arms. They were united 
under the command of Julian Avenel, and it was appre- 


Spur -whang — Spur-leather. 


THE MONASTERY. 


385 

hended they would join battle upon the banks of a small 
stream which forms the verge of the Halidome. 

“ Who knows the place ?” said Murray. 

u I do, my lord,” answered Glendinning. 

“’Tis well,” said the Earl; “take a score of the best- 
mounted horse — make what haste thou canst, announce to 
them that I am coming up instantly with a strong power, 
and will cut to pieces, without mercy, whichever party 
strikes the first blow. — Davidson,” said he, to the gentle- 
man who brought the intelligence, “ thou shalt be my 
guide. — Hie thee on, Glendinnmg — Say to Foster, I con- 
jure him, as lie respects his mistress’s service, that he will 
leave the matter in my hands. Say to the Abbot, I will 
burn the Monastery over his head, if he strikes a stroke till 
I come — tell the dog, Julian Avenel, that he hath already 
one deep score to settle with me — I will set his head on 
the top of the highest pinnacle of Saint Mary’s, if he pre- 
sume to open another. Make haste, and spare not the 
spur for fear of spoiling horse-flesh.” 

“ Your bidding shall be obeyed, my lord,” said Glendin- 
ning ; and choosing those whose horses were in best plight 
to be attendants, he went off as fast as the jaded state of 
their cavalry permitted. Hill and hollow vanished from 
under the feet of the chargers. 

They had not ridden half the way, when they met strag- 
glers coming off from the field, whose appearance an- 
nounced that the conflict was begun. Two supported in 
their arms a third, their elder brother, who was pierced 
with an arrow through the body. Halbert, who knew 
them to belong to the Halidome, called them by their 
names, and questioned them of the state of the affray ; but 
just then, in spite of their efforts to retain him in the sad- 
dle, their brother dropped from the horse, and they dis- 
mounted in haste to receive his last breath. From men 
thus engaged no information was to be obtained. Glen- 
dinning, therefore, pushed on with his little troop, the 
more anxiously, as he perceived other stragglers, bearing 
Saint Andrew's cross upon their caps and corselets, flying 
apparently from the field of battle. Most of these, when 
they were aware of a body of horsemen approaching on 
the road, held to the one hand or the other, at such a 
distance as precluded coming to speech of them. Others, 
whose fear was more intense, kept the onward road, gal- 
loping wildly as fast as their horses could carry them, and 
wnen questioned only glared without reply on those who 

25 


3 86 


THE MONASTERY. 


spoke to them, and rode on without drawing bridle. Several 
of these were also known to Halbert, who had therefore no 
doubt, from the circumstances in which he met them, that 
the men of the Halidome were defeated. He became now 
unspeakably anxious concerning the fate of his brother, 
who, he could not doubt, must have been engaged in the 
affray. He therefore increased the speed of his horse, so 
that not above five or six of his followers could keep up 
with him. At length he reached a little hill, at the de- 
scent of which, surrounded by a semicircular sweep of a 
small stream, lay the plain which had been the scene of 
the skirmish. 

It was a melancholy spectacle. War and terror, to use 
the expression of the poet, had rushed on to the field, and 
left only wounds and death behind them. The battle had 
been stoutly contested, as was almost always the case with 
these Border skirmishes, where ancient hatred and mutual 
injuries made them stubborn in maintaining the cause of 
their conflict. Toward the middle of the plain there lay 
the bodies of several men, who had fallen in the very act 
of grappling with the enemy ; and there were seen coun- 
tenances which still bore the stern expression of unextin- 
guishable hate and defiance, hands which clasped the hilt 
of the broken falchion, or strove in vain to pluck the deadly 
arrow from the wound. Some were wounded, and, cowed 
of the courage they had lately shown, were begging aid, 
and craving water, in a tone of melancholy depression ; 
while others tried to teach the faltering tongue to pro- 
nounce some half-forgotten prayer, which, even when first 
learned, they had but half understood. Halbert, uncertain 
what course he was next to pursue, rode through the plain 
to see if, among the dead or wounded, he could discover 
any traces of his brother Edward. He experienced no in- 
terruption from the English. A distant cloud of dust an- 
nounced that they were still pursuing the scattered fugi- 
tives, and he guessed that to approach them with -his 
followers until they were again under some command 
would be to throw away his own life and that of his men, 
whom the victors would instantly confound with the Scots 
against whom they had been successful. He resolved, 
therefore, to pause until Murray came up with his forces, 
to which he was the more readily moved, as he heard the 
trumpets of the English Warden sounding the retreat, 
and recalling from the pursuit. He drew his men together, 
and made a stand in an advantageous spot of ground, which 


THE MONASTERY, \ 


387 


had been occupied by the Scots in the beginning of the 
action, and most fiercely disputed while the skirmish lasted. 

While he stood here, Halbert’s ear was assailed by the 
feeble moan of a woman, which he had not expected to 
hear amid that scene until the retreat of the foes had per- 
mitted the relations of the slain to approach, for the pur- 
pose of paying them the last duties. He looked with 
anxiety, and at length observed that by the body of a 
knight in bright armor, whose crest, though soiled and 
broken, still showed the marks of rank and birth, there sat 
a female wrapped in a horseman’s cloak, and holding some- 
thing pressed against her bosom, which he soon discovered 
to be a child. He glanced toward the English. They ad- 
vanced not, and the continued and prolonged sound of 
their trumpets, with the shouts of the leaders, announced 
that their powers would not be instantly reassembled. He 
had, therefore, a moment to look after this unfortunate 
woman. He gave his horse to a spearman as he dismounted, 
and, approaching the unhappy female, asked her, in the most 
soothing tone he could assume, whether he could assist her 
in her distress. The mourner made him no direct answer ; 
but endeavoring, with a trembling and unskilful hand, to 
undo the springs of the visor and gorget, said, in a tone of 
impatient grief, “ Oh, he would recover instantly could I 
but give him air — land and living, life and honor, w r ould I 
give for the power of undoing these cruel iron plaitings 
that suffocate him ! ” He that would soothe sorrow must 
not argue on the vanity of the most deceitful hopes. The 
body lay as that of one whose last draft of vital air had been 
drawn, and who must never more have concern with the 
nether sky. But Halbert Glendinning failed not to raise 
the visor and cast loose the gorget, when, to his great sur- 
prise, he recognized the pale face of Julian Avenel. His 
last fight was over, the fierce and turbid spirit had de- 
parted in the strife in which it had so long delighted. 

“Alas ! he is gone,” said Halbert, speaking to the young 
woman, in whom he had now no difficulty of knowing the 
unhappy Catherine. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” she reiterated, “do not say so — he is 
not dead — he is but in a swoon. I have lain as long in 
one myself — and then his voice would arouse me, when he 
spoke kindly, and said, Catherine, look up for my sake — 
And look up, Julian, for mine ! ” she said, addressing the 
senseless corpse ; “ I know you do but counterfeit to fright- 
en me, but I am not frightened,” she added, with an hys- 


3 88 


THE MONASTERY. 


terical attempt to laugh ; and then instantly changing her 
tone, entreated him to “speak, were it but to curse my 
folly. Oh, the rudest word you ever said to me would now 
sound like the dearest you wasted on me before I gave you 
all. Lift him up,” she said, “lift him up, for God’s sake ! 
— have you no compassion ? He promised to wed me if I 
bore him a boy, and this child is so like to its father! — 
How shall he keep his word if you do not help me to 
awaken him? — Christie of the Clinthill, Rowley, Hutcheon! 
ye were constant at his feast, but ye fled from him at the 
fray, false villains as ye are ! ” 

“ Not I, by Heaven ! ” said a dying man, who made some 
shift to raise himself on his elbow, and discovered to Hal- 
bert the well-known features of Christie ; “ I fled not a 
foot, and a man can but fight while his breath lasts — mine 
is going fast. — So, youngster,” said he, looking at Glen- 
dinning, and seeing his military dress, “thou hast ta’en the 
basnet at last ? it is a better cap to live in than die in. I 
would chance had sent thy brother here instead — there 
was good in him — but thou art as wild, and wilt soon be as 
wicked, as myself.” 

“ God forbid ! ” said Halbert, hastily. 

“ Marry, and amen, with all my heart,” said the wounded 
man, “ there will be company enow without thee where I 
am going. But God be praised, I had no hand in that 
wickedness,” said he, looking to poor Catherine ; and with 
some exclamation in his mouth, that sounded betwixt a 
prayer and a curse, the soul of Christie of the Clinthill 
took wing to the last account. 

Deeply wrapt in the painful interest which these shock- 
ing events had excited, Glendinning forgot for a moment 
his own situation and duties, and was first recalled to them 
by a trampling of horse, and the cry of Saint George for 
England, which the English soldiers still continued to use. 
His handful of men, for most of the stragglers had waited 
for Murray’s coming up, remained on horseback, holding 
their lances upright, having no command either to submit 
or resist. 

“ There stands our Captain,” said one of them, as a strong 
party of English came up, the vanguard of Foster’s troop. 

“ Your Captain ! with his sword sheathed, and on foot 
in the presence of his enemy ? a raw soldier, I warrant 
him,” said the English leader. “So ho! young man, is 
your dream out, and will you now answer me if you will 
fight or fly ? ” 


THE MONASTERY. 389 

Neither,” answered Halbert Glendinning, with great 
tranquillity. 

“Then throw down thy sword and yield thee,” answered 
the Englishman. 

“Not till I can help myself no otherwise,” said Halbert, 
with the same moderation of tone and manner. 

“Art thou for thine own hand, friend, or to whom dost 
thou owe service ? ” demanded the English Captain. 

“ To the noble Earl of Murray.” 

“ Then thou servest,” said the Southron, “ the most dis- 
loyal nobleman who breathes — false both to England and 
Scotland.” 

“Thou liest,” said Glendinning, regardless of all conse- 
quences. 

“ Ha ! art thou so hot now, and wert so cold but a min- 
ute since ? I lie, do I ? Wilt thou do battle with me on 
that quarrel ? ” 

“ With one to one — one to two — or two to five, as you 
list,” said Halbert Glendinning; “grant me but a fair 
field.” 

“That thou shalt have. Stand back, my mates,” said 
the brave Englishman. “ If I fall, give him fair play, and 
let him go off free with his people.” 

“ Long life to the noble Captain ! ” cried the soldiers, as 
impatient to see the duel as if it had been a bull-baiting. 

“ He will have a short life of it, though,” said the ser- 
geant, “if he, an old man of sixty, is to fight for any 
reason, or for no reason, with every man he meets, and 
especially the young fellows he might be father to. And 
here comes the Warden besides to see the sword-play.” 

In fact, Sir John Foster came up with a considerable 
body of his horsemen, just as his Captain, whose age ren- 
dered him. unequal to the combat with so strong and 
active a youth as Glendinning, was deprived of his sword. 

“ Take it up for shame, old Stawarth Bolton,” said the 
English Warden ; “and thou, young man, tell me who and 
what thou art ? ” 

“A follower of the Earl of Murray, who bore his will to 
your honor,” answered Glendinning, — “ but here he comes 
to say it himself ; I see the van of his horsemen come over 
the hills.” 

“Get into order, my masters,” said Sir John Foster to 
his followers; “you that have broken your spears, draw 
your swords. We are something unprovided for a second 
field, but if yonder dark cloud on the hill-edge bring us 


390 


THE MONASTERY, \ 


foul weather, we must bear as bravely as our broken 
cloaks will bide it. Meanwhile, Stawarth, we have got the 
deer we have hunted for — here is Piercie Shafton hard 
and fast betwixt two troopers.” 

“Who, that lad?” said Bolton ; “he is no more Piercie 
Shafton than I am. He hath his gay cloak indeed — but 
Piercie Shafton is a round dozen of years older than that 
slip of roguery. I have known him since he was thus high. 
Did you never see him in the tilt-yard or in the presence ? ” 

“ To the devil with such vanities ! ” said Sir John Foster ; 
“when had I leisure for them or anything else ? During 
my whole life has she kept me to this hangman’s office, 
chasing thieves one day and traitors another, in daily fear 
of my life ; the lance never hung up in the hall, the foot 
never out of the stirrup, the saddles never off my nags’ 
backs ; and now, because I have been mistaken in the per- 
son of a man I never saw, I warrant me, the next letters 
from the Privy Council will rate me as I were a dog — a 
man were better dead than thus slaved and harassed.” 

A trumpet interrupted Foster’s complaints, and a Scot- 
tish pursuivant who attended, declared “ that the noble 
Earl of Murray desired, in all honor and safety, a personal 
conference with Sir John Foster, midway between their 
parties, with six of company in each, and ten free minutes 
to come and go.” 

“And now,” said the Englishman, “comes another 
plague. I must go speak with yonder false Scot, and he 
knows how to frame his devices, to cast dust in the eyes of 
a plain man, as well as ever a knave in the north. I am no 
match for him in words, and for hard blows we are but too 
ill provided. — Pursuivant, we grant the conference — and 
you, Sir Swordsman ” (speaking to young Glendinning), 
“ draw off with your troopers to your own party — march — 
attend your Earl’s trumpet. — Stawarth Bolton, put our 
troop in order, and be ready to move forward at the wag- 
ging of a finger. — Get you gone to your own friends, I tell 
you, Sir Squire, and loiter not here.” 

Notwithstanding this peremptory order, Halbert Glen- 
dinning could not help stopping to cast a look upon the 
unfortunate Catherine, who lay insensible of the danger 
and of the trampling of so many horses around her, insen- 
sible, as the second glance assured him, of all and for- 
ever. Glendinning almost rejoiced when he saw that the 
last misery of life was over, and that the hoofs of the war- 
horses, amongst which he was compelled to leave her, 


THE MONASTERY. 


39i 


could only injure and deface a senseless corpse. He caught 
the infant from her arms, half ashamed of the shout of 
laughter which rose on all sides, at seeing an armed man 
in such a situation assume such an unwonted and incon- 
venient burden. 

“ Shoulder your infant ! ” cried a arquebusier. 

“ Port your infant ! ” said a pikeman. 

“ Peace, ye brutes,” said Stawarth Bolton, “ and respect 
humanity in others if you have none yourselves. I pardon 
the lad having done some discredit to my gray hairs, when 
I see him take care of that helpless creature, which ye 
would have trampled upon as if ye had been littered of 
bitch-wolves, not born of women.” 

While this passed, the leaders on either side met in the 
neutral space betwixt the forces of either, and the Earl 
accosted the English Warden : “Is this fair or honest 
usage, Sir John, or for whom do you hold the Earl of 
Morton and myself, that you ride in Scotland with arrayed 
banner, fight, slay, and make prisoners at your own 
pleasure ? Is it well done, think you, to spoil our land 
and shed our blood, after the many proofs we have given 
to your mistress of our devotion due to her will, saving 
always the allegiance due to our own sovereign ? ” 

“My Lord of Murray,” answered Foster, “all the world 
knows you to be a man of quick ingine and deep wisdbm, 
and these several weeks have you held me in hand with 
promising to arrest my sovereign mistress’s rebel, this 
Piercie Shafton of Wilverton, and you have never kept 
your word, alleging turmoils in the west, and I wot not 
what other causes of hindrance. Now, since he has had 
the insolence to return hither, and live openly within ten 
miles of England, I could no longer, in plain duty to my 
mistress and queen, tarry upon your successive delays, and 
therefore I have used her force to take her rebel, by the 
strong hand, wherever I can find him.” 

“ And is Piercie Shafton in your hands, then ? ” said the 
Earl of Murray. “ Be aware that I may not, without my 
own great shame, suffer you to remove him hence without 
doing battle.” 

“ Will you, Lord Earl, after all the advantages you have 
received at the hands of the Queen of England, do battle 
in the cause of her rebel ?” said Sir John Foster. 

“Not so, Sir John,” answered the Earl, “but I will 
fight to the death in defence of the liberties of our free 
kingdom of Scotland.” 


392 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ By my faith,” said Sir John Foster, “ I am well con- 
tent — my sword is not blunted with all it has done yet 
this day.” 

“ By my honor, Sir John,” said Sir George Heron of 
Chipcbase, “ there is but little reason we should fight 
these Scottish Lords e’en now, for I hold opinion with old 
Stawarth Bolton, and believe yonder prisoner to be no 
more Piercie Shafton than he is the Earl of Northumber- 
land ; and you were but ill advised to break the peace be- 
twixt the countries for a prisoner of less consequence 
than that gay mischief-maker.” 

“ Sir George,” replied Foster, “ I have often heard you 
herons are afraid of hawks — Nay, lay not hand on sword, 
man — I did but jest ; and for this prisoner, let him be 
brought up hither, that we may see who or what he is— 
always under assurance, my lords,” he continued, address- 
ing the Scots. 

“Upon our word and honor,” said Morton, “we will 
offer no violence.” 

The laugh turned against Sir John Foster considerably, 
when the prisoner, being brought up, proved not only a 
different person from Sir Piercie Shafton, but a female in 
man’s attire. 

“ Pluck the mantle from the quean’s face, and cast her 
to the horse-boys,” said Foster ; “ she has kept such com- 
pany ere now, I warrant.” 

Even Murray was moved to laughter, no common thing 
with him, at the disappointment of the English Warden ; 
but he would not permit any violence to be offered to the 
fair Molinara, who had thus a second time rescued Sir 
Piercie Shafton at her own personal risk. 

“ You have already done more mischief than you can 
well answer,” said the Earl to the English Warden, “and 
it were dishonor to me should I permit you to harm a hair 
of this young woman’s head.” 

“ My lord,” said Morton, “if Sir John will ride apart 
with me but for one moment, I will show him such reasons 
as shall make him content to depart, and to refer this un- 
happy day’s work to the judgment of the Commissioners 
nominated to try offences on the Border.” 

He then led Sir John Foster aside, and spoke to him -in 
this manner: — “Sir John Foster, I much marvel that a 
man who knows your Queen Elizabeth as you do, should 
not know that, if you hope anything from her, it must be 
for doing her useful service, not for involving her in quar- 


THE MONASTERY. 


393 


rels with her neighbors, without any advantage. Sir 
Knight, I will speak frankly what I know to be true. Had 
you seized the true Piercie Shafton by this ill-advised in- 
road; and had your deed threatened, as most likely it might, 
a breach betwixt the countries, your politic princess and 
her politic council would rather have disgraced Sir John 
Foster than entered into war in his behalf. But now that 
you have stricken short of your aim you may rely on it you 
will have little thanks for carrying the matter farther. I will 
work thus far on the Earl of Murray, that he will under- 
take to dismiss Sir Piercie Shafton from the realm of Scot- 
land. Be well advised, and let the matter now pass off — 
you will gain nothing by farther violence, for if we fight, 
you, as the fewer and the weaker through your former ac- 
tion, will needs have the worse.” 

Sir John Foster listened with his head declining on his 
breastplate. 

“It is a cursed chance,” he said, “ and I shall have little 
thanks for my day’s work.” 

He then rode up to Murray, and said, that, in deference 
to his Lordship’s presence and that of my Lord of Morton, 
he had come to the resolution of withdrawing himself, with 
his power, without farther proceedings. 

“Stop there, Sir John Foster,” said Murray, “I cannot 
permit you to retire in safety, unless you leave some one 
who may be surety to Scotland, that the injuries you have 
at present done us may be fully accounted for;— you will 
reflect that by permitting your retreat, I become account- 
able to my Sovereign, who will demand a reckoning of me 
for the blood of her subjects, if I suffer those who shed it 
to depart so easily.” 

“It shall never be told in England,” said the Warden, 
“ that John Foster gave pledges like a subdued man, and 
that on the very field on which he stands victorious. — 
But,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “if Stawartli 
Bolton wills to abide with you on his own free choice, I 
will say nothing against it ; and, as I bethink me, it were 
better he should stay to see the dismissal of this same Pier- 
cie Shafton.” 

“ I receive him as your hostage, nevertheless, and shall 
treat him as such,” said the Earl of Murray. But Foster, 
turning away as if to give directions to Bolton and his 
men, affected not to hear this observation. 

“ There rides a faithful servant of his most beautiful 
and Sovereign Lady,” said Murray aside to Morton. 


394 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Happy man ! he knows not whether the execution of 
her commands may not cost him his head ; and yet he is 
most certain that to leave them unexecuted will bring dis- 
grace and death without reprieve. Happy are they who 
are not only subjected to the caprices of Dame Fortune, 
but held bound to account and be responsible for them, 
and that to a sovereign as moody and fickle as her hu- 
morous ladyship herself ! ” 

“We also have a female Sovereignly lord,” said Morton. 

“We have so, Douglas,” said the Earl, with a suppressed 
sigh ; “ but it remains to be seen how long a female hand 
can hold the reins of power in a realm so wild as ours. 
We will now go on to Saint Mary’s, and see ourselves after 
the state of that House. Glendinning, look to that woman 
and protect her. What the fiend, man, hast thou got in 
thine arms ? — an infant, as I live ! — where couldst thou 
find such a charge, at such a place and moment ? ” 

Halbert Glendinning briefly told the story. The Earl 
rode forward to the place where the body of Julian Avenel 
lay, with his unhappy companion’s arms wrapped around 
him like the trunk of an uprooted oak borne down by the 
tempest with all its ivy garlands. Both were cold dead. 
Murray was touched in an unwonted degree, remembering, 
perhaps, his own birth. “ What have they to answer for, 
Douglas,” he said, “who thus abuse the sweetest gifts of 
affection ? ” 

The Earl of Morton, unhappy in his marriage, was a lib- 
ertine in his amours. 

“You must ask that question of Henry Warden, my 
lord, or of John Knox — I am but a wild counsellor in 
women’s matters.” 

“Forward to Saint Mary’s,” said the Earl; “pass the 
word on — Glendinning, give the infant to this same female 
cavalier, and let it be taken charge of. Let no dishonor be 
done to the dead bodies, and call on the country to bury 
or remove them. Forward, I say, my masters !” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH. 

Gone to be married ? — Gone to swear a peace ! — King John. 

The news of the lost battle, so quickly carried by the 
fugitives to the village and convent, had spread fhe great- 
est alarm among the inhabitants. The Sacristan and other 


THE MONASTERY. 


395 


monks counselled flight; the Treasurer recommended that 
the church plate should be offered as a tribute to bribe 
the English officer ; the Abbot alone was unmoved and 
undaunted. 

“ My brethren,” he said, “ since God has not given our 
people victory in the combat, it must be because he re- 
quires of us, his spiritual soldiers, to fight the good fight 
of martyrdom, a conflict in which nothing but our own 
faint-hearted cowardice can make us fail of victory. Let 
us assume, then, the armor of faith, and prepare, if it be 
necessary, to die under the ruin of these shrines, to the 
service of which we have devoted ourselves. Highly hon- 
ored are we all in this distinguished summons, from our 
dear brother Nicholas, whose gray hairs have been pre- 
served until they should be surrounded by the crown of 
martyrdom, down to my beloved son Edward, who, arriv- 
ing at the vineyard at the latest hour of the day, is yet per- 
mitted to share its toils with those who have labored from 
the morning. Be of good courage, my children. I dare 
not, like my sainted predecessors, promise to you that you 
shall be preserved by miracle — I and you are alike unwor- 
thy of that especial interposition, which in earlier times 
turned the sword of sacrilege against the bosom of tyrants 
by whom it was wielded, daunted the hardened hearts of 
heretics with prodigies, and called down hosts of angels to 
defend the shrine of God and of the Virgin. Yet, by heaven- 
ly aid, you shall this day see that your Father and Abbot 
will not disgrace the mitre which sits upon his brow. Go 
to your cells, my children, and exercise your private de- 
votions. Array yourselves also in alb and cope, as for our 
most solemn festivals, and be ready, when the tolling of 
the largest bell announces the approach of the enemy, to 
march forth to meet' them in solemn procession. Let the 
church be opened to afford such refuge as may be to those 
of our vassals, who, from their exertion in this day’s un- 
happy battle, or other cause, are particularly apprehen- 
sive of the rage of the enemy. Tell Sir Piercie Shafton, 
if he has escaped the fight” 

“ I am here, most venerable Abbot,” replied Sir Piercie ; 
“and if it so seemeth meet to you, I will presently assem- 
ble such of the men as have escaped this escaramouche, 
and will renew the resistance, even unto the death. Certes, 
you will learn from all that I did my part in this unhappy 
matter. Had it pleased Julian Avenel to have attended 
to my counsel, especially in somewhat withdrawing of his 


39 6 


THE MONASTERY. 


main battle, even as you may have marked the heron eschew 
the stoop of the falcon, receiving him rather upon bis 
beak than upon his wing, affairs, as I do conceive, might 
have had a different face, and we might then, in a more 
bellicose manner, have maintained that affray. Neverthe- 
less, I would not be understood to speak anything in disre- 
gard of Julian Avenel, whom I saw fall fighting manfully 
with his face to his enemy, which hath banished from my 
memory the unseemly term of ‘meddling coxcomb’ with 
which it pleased him something rashly to qualify my ad- 
vice, and for which, had it pleased Heaven and the saints 
to have prolonged the life of that excellent person, I had 
it bound upon my soul to have put him to death with my 
own hand.” 

“ Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot, at length interrupting 
him, “our time allows brief leisure to speak what might 
have been.” 

“You are right, most venerable Lord and Father,” re- 
plied the incorrigible Euphuist ; “ the preterite, as gram- 
marians have it, concerns frail mortality less than the future 
mood, and indeed our cogitations respect chiefly the pres- 
ent. In a word, I am willing to head all who will follow 
me, and offer such opposition as manhood and mortality 
may permit, to the advance of the English, though they 
be my own countrymen ; and be assured Piercie Shafton 
will measure his length, being five feet ten inches, on the 
ground as he stands, rather than give two yards in retreat, 
according to the usual motion in which we retrograde.” 

“ I thank you, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot, “and I doubt 
not that you would make your words good ; but it is not 
the will of Heaven that carnal weapons should rescue us. 
We are called to endure, not resist, and may not waste the 
blood of our innocent commons in vain — Fruitless oppo- 
sition becomes not men of our profession ; they have my 
commands to resign the sword and the spear — God and 
Our Lady have not blessed our banner.” 

“ Bethink you, reverend lord,” said Piercie Shafton, very 
eagerly, “ere you resign the defence that is in your power 
— there are many posts near the entry of this village where 
brave men might live or die to the advantage ; and I have 
this additional motive to make defence — the safety, namely, 
of a fair friend, who, I hope, hath escaped the hands of 
the heretics.” 

“I understand you, Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot — “you 
mean the daughter of our Convent’s miller.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


397 


“ Reverend my lord/’ said Sir Piercie, not without hesi- 
tation, “ the fair Mysinda is, as may be in some sort alleged, 
the daughter of one who mechanically prepareth corn to 
be manipulated into bread, without which we could not 
exist, and which is therefore an employment in itself hon- 
orable, nay, necessary. Nevertheless, if the purest senti- 
ments of a generous mind, streaming forth like the rays 
of the sun reflected by a diamond, may ennoble one, who 
is in some sort the daughter of a molendinary mechan- 
ic” — 

“ I have no time for all this, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot ; 
“ be it enough to answer, that with our will we war no 
longer with carnal weapons. We of the spirituality will 
teach you of the temporality how to die in cold blood, our 
hands not clinched for resistance, but folded for prayer — 
our minds not filled with jealous hatred, but with Chris- 
tian meekness and forgiveness — our ears not deafened, nor 
our senses confused, by the sound of clamorous instru- 
ments of war ; but, on the contrary, our voices composed 
to Halleluiah, Kyrie-Eleison, and Salve Regina, and our 
blood temperate and cold, as those who think upon recon- 
ciling themselves with God, and not of avenging them- 
selves of their fellow-mortals.” 

“Lord Abbot,” said Sir Piercie, “this is nothing to the 
fate of my Molinara, whom, I beseech you to observe, I 
will not abandon while golden hilt and steel blade bide to- 
gether on my falchion. I commanded her not to follow 
us to the field, and yet methought I saw her in her page’s 
attire amongst the rear of the combatants.” 

“You must seek elsewhere for the person in whose fate 
you are so deeply interested,” said the Abbot; “and at 
present I will pray of your knighrhood to inquire con- 
cerning her at the church, in which all our more defence- 
less vassals have taken refuge. It is my advice to you, 
that you also abide by the horns of the altar ; and, Sir 
Piercie Shafton,” he added, “be of one thing secure, that 
if you come to harm it will involve the whole of this broth- 
erhood ; for never, I trust, will the meanest of us buy 
safety at the expense of surrendering a friend or a guest. 
Leave us, my son, and may God be your aid !” 

When Sir Piercie Shafton had departed, and the Abbot 
was about to betake'himself to his own cell, he was sur- 
prised by an unknown person anxiously requiring a con- 
ference, who, being admitted, proved to be no other than 
Henry Warden. The Abbot started as he entered, and 


39 » 


THE MONASTERY 


exclaimed angrily — “ Ha ! are the few hours that fate al- 
lows him who may last wear the mitre of this house, not 
to be excused from the intrusion of heresy ? Dost thou 
come,” he said, “to enjoy the hopes which fate holds out 
to thy demented and accursed sect, to see the bosom of de- 
struction sweep away the pride of old religion — to deface 
our shrines — to mutilate and lay waste the bodies of 
our benefactors, as well as their sepulchres — to destroy 
the pinnacles and carved work of God’s house and our 
Lady’s ? ” 

“ Peace, William Allan ! ” said the Protestant preacher, 
with dignified composure ; “for none of these purposes do 
I come. I would have these stately shrines deprived of 
the idols which, no longer simply regarded as the effigies 
of the good and of the wise, have become the objects of 
foul idolatry. I would otherwise have its ornaments sub- 
sist, unless as they are or may be a snare to the souls of 
men ; and especially do I condemn those ravages which 
have been made by the heady fury of the people, stung 
into zeal against will-worship by bloody persecution. 
Against such wanton devastations I lift my testimony.” 

“ Idle distinguisher that thou art!” said the Abbot Eus- 
tace, interrupting him ; “what signifies the pretext under 
which thou dost despoil the house of God ? and why at 
this present emergence wilt thou insult the master of it by 
thy ill-omened presence ?” 

“Thou art unjust, William Allan,” said Warden ; “but 
I am not the less settled in my resolution. Thou hast 
protected me some time since at the hazard of thy rank, 
and what I know thou boldest still dearer, at the risk 
of thy reputation with thine own sect. Our party is 
now uppermost, and, believe me, I have come down the 
valley, in which thou didst quarter me for sequestration’s 
sake, simply with the wish to keep my engagements to 
thee.” 

“Ay,” answered the Abbot, “and it may be that my 
listening to that worldly and infirm compassion which 
pleaded with me for thy life, is now avenged by this im- 
pending judgment. Heaven hath smitten, it may be, the 
erring shepherd, and scattered the flock.” 

“ Think better of the Divine judgments,” said Warden. 
“ Not for thy sins, which are those o‘f thy blinded educa- 
tion and circumstances ; not for thine own sins, William 
Allan, art thou stricken, but for the accumulated guilt 
which thy misnamed Church hath accumulated on her head. 


THE MONASTERY. 


399 


and those of her votaries, by the errors and corruptions 
of ages.” 

“ Now, by my sure belief in the Rock of Peter,” said 
the Abbot, “ thou dost rekindle the last spark of human 
indignation for which my bosom has fuel — I thought I 
might not again have felt the impulse of earthly passion, 
and it is thy voice which once more calls me to the expres- 
sion of human anger! yes, it is thy voice that comest to 
insult me in my hour of sorrow with these blasphemous 
accusations of that church which hath kept the light of 
Christianity alive from the times of the Apostles till 
now.” 

“From the times of the Apostles?” said the preacher 
eagerly. “ Negatur , Guliehne Allan — the primitive church 
differed as much from that of Rome, as did light from dark- 
ness, which, did time permit, I should speedily prove. 
And worse dost thou judge, in saying I come to insult thee 
in thy hour of affliction, being here, God wot, with the 
Christian wish of fulfilling an engagement I had made to 
my host, and of rendering myself to thy will while it had 
yet power to exercise aught upon me, and if it might so 
be, to mitigate in thy behalf the rage of the victors whom 
God hath sent as a scourge to thy obstinacy.” 

“ I will none of thy intercession,” said the Abbot, sternly ; 
“the dignity to which the Church has exalted me, never 
should have swelled my bosom more proudly in the time 
of the highest prosperity, than it doth at this crisis — I ask 
nothing of thee, but the assurance that my lenity to thee 
hath been the means of perverting no soul to Satan, that 
I have not given to the wolf any of the stray lambs whom 
the Great Shepherd of souls had intrusted to my charge.” 

“William Allan,” answered the Protestant, “ I will be 
sincere with thee. What I promised I have kept — I have 
% withheld my voice from speaking even good things. But 
it has pleased Heaven to call the maiden Mary Avenel 
to a better sense of faith than thou and all the disciples 
of Rome can teach. Her I have aided with my humble 
power — I have extricated her from the machinations of 
evil spirits to which she and her house were exposed 
during the blindness of their Romish superstition, and, 
praise be to my Master, I have not reason to fear she will 
again be caught in thy snares.” 

“Wretched man !” said the Abbot, unable to suppress 
his rising indignation, “is it to the Abbot of Saint Mary’s 
that you boast having misled the soul of a dweller in Our 


400 


THE MONA SI ER V. 


Lady’s Halidome into the paths of foul error and damning 
heresy ? — Thou dost urge me, Wellwood, beyond what it 
becomes me to bear, and movest me to employ the few 
moments of power I may yet possess, in removing from 
the face of the earth one, whose qualities, given by God, 
have been so utterly perverted as thine to the service of 
Satan.” 

“ Do thy pleasure,” said the preacher ; “ thy vain wrath 
shall not prevent my doing my duty to advantage thee, 
where it may de done without neglecting my higher call. 

I go to the Earl of Murray.” 

Their conference, which was advancing fast into bitter 
disputation, was here interrupted by the deep and sullen 
toll of the largest and heaviest bell of the Convent, a sound 
famous in the chronicles of the Community, for dispelling 
of tempests, and putting to flight demons, but which now 
only announced danger, without affording any means of 
warding against it. Hastily repeating his orders, that all 
the brethren should attend in the choir, arrayed for sol- 
emn procession, the Abbot ascended to the battlements of 
the lofty Monastery, by his own private staircase, and 
there met the Sacristan, who had been in the act of direct- 
ing the tolling of the huge bell, which fell under his charge. 

“ It is the last time I shall discharge mine office, most 
venerable Father and Lord,” said he to the Abbot, “for 
yonder come the Philistines ; but I would not that the 
large bell of Saint Mary’s should sound for the last time, 
otherwise than in true and full tone — I have been a sinful 
man for one of our holy profession,” added he, looking 
upward, “yet may I presume to say, not a bell hath 
sounded out of tune from the tower of the house, while 
Father Philip had the superintendence of the chime and 
the belfry.” 

The Abbot, without reply, cast his eyes toward the 
path, which, winding around the mountain, descends up-* 
on Kennaquhair, from the southeast. He beheld at a 
distance a cloud of dust, and heard the neighing of many 
horses, while the occasional sparkle of the long line of 
spears, as they came downwards into the valley, announced 
that the band came thither in arms. 

“ Shame on my weakness ! ” said Abbot Eustace, dashing 
the tears from his eyes ; “ my sight is too much dimmed to 
observe their motions — look, my son Edward,” for his fa- 
vorite novice had again joined him, “ and tell me what en- 
signs they bear.” 


TIIE MONASTERY. 


401 


“ They are Scottish men, when all is done,” exclaimed 
Edward — “ I see the white crosses — it may be the Western 
Borderers, or Fernieherst and his clan.” 

“ Look at the banner,” said the Abbot ; “ tell me, what 
are the blazonries?” 

“The arms of Scotland,” said Edward, “the lion and its 
tressure, quartered, as I think, with three cushions — Can 
it be the royal standard ? ” 

“Alas ! no,” said the Abbot, “it is that of the Earl of 
Murray. He hath assumed with his new conquest the 
badge of the valiant Randolph, and hath dropt from his 
hereditary coat the bend which indicates his own base 
birth — would to God he may not have blotted it also from 
his memory, and aim as well at possessing the name, as 
the power, of a king.” 

“At least, my father,” said Edward, “he will secure us 
from the violence of the Southron.” 

“ Ay, my son, as the shepherd secures a silly lamb from 
the wolf, which he destines in due time to his own ban- 
quet. Oh, my son, evil days are on us! A breach has 
been made in the walls of our sanctuary — thy brother hath 
fallen from the faith. Such news brought my last secret 
intelligence — Murray hath already spoken of rewarding 
his services with the hand of Mary Avenel.” 

“Of Mary Avenel!” said the novice, tottering toward 
and grasping hold of one of the carved pinnacles which 
adorned the proud battlement. 

“Ay, of Mary Avenel, my son, who has also abjured the 
faith of her fathers. Weep not, my Edward, weep not, my 
beloved son ! or weep for their apostasy, and not for their 
union — Bless God, w r ho hath called thee to himself, out of 
the tents of wickedness ; but for the grace of Our Lady 
and Saint Benedict, thou also hadst been a castaway.” 

“ I endeavor, my father,” said Edward, “ I endeavor to 
forget ; but what I would nbw blot from my memory has 
been the thought of all my former life — Murray dare not 
forward a match so unequal in birth.” 

“He dares do what suits his purpose — The Castle of 
Avenel is strong, and needs a good castellan, devoted to 
his service ; as for the difference of their birth, he will 
mind it no more than he would mind defacing the natural 
regularity of the ground, were it necessary he should erect 
upon it military lines and intrenchments. But do not 
droop for that — awaken thy soul within thee, my son. 
Think you part with a vain vision, an idle dream, nursed 
26 


402 


THE MONASTERY. 


in solitude and inaction — I weep not, yet what am I now 
like to lose ? — Look at these towers, where saints dwelt, 
and where heroes have been buried — Think that I, so 
briefly called to preside over the pious flock, which has 
dwelt here since the first light of Christianity, may be this 
day written down the last father of this holy community — 
Come, let us descend, and meet our fate. I see them ap- 
proach near to the village.” 

The Abbot descended, the novice cast a glance around 
him ; yet the sense of the danger impending over the 
stately structure, with which he was now united, was un- 
able to banish the recollection of Mary Avenel. — “ His 
brother’s bride ! ” he pulled the cowl over his face, and 
followed his Superior. 

The whole bells of the Abbey now added their peal to 
the death-toll of the largest which had so long sounded. 
The monks wept and prayed as they got themselves into 
the order of their procession for the last time, as seemed 
but too probable. 

“It is well our Father Boniface hath retired to the in- 
land,” said Father Philip ; “he could never have put over 
this day — it would have broken his heart ! ” 

“ God be with the soul of Abbot Ingelram ! ” said old 
Father Nicholas, “ there were no such doings in his days. — 
They say we are to be put forth of the cloisters ; and how 
I am to live anywhere else than where I have lived for 
these seventy years, I wot not — the best is, that I have 
not long to live anywhere.” 

A few moments after this the great gate of the Abbey was 
flung open, and the procession moved slowly forward from 
beneath its huge and richly- adorned gateway. Cross and 
banner, pix and chalice, shrines containing relics, and cen- 
sers steaming with incense, preceded and were intermingled 
with the long and solemn array of the brotherhood, in 
their long black gowns and coftds, with their white scapu- 
laries hanging over them, the various officers of the con- 
vent each displaying his proper badge of office. In the 
centre of the procession came the Abbot, surrounded and 
supported by his chief assistants. He was dressed in his 
habit of high solemnity, and appeared as much uncon- 
cerned as if he had been taking his usual part in some 
ordinary ceremony. After him came the inferior persons 
of the convent ; the novices in their albs or white dresses, 
and the lay brethren distinguished by their beards, which 
were seldom worn by the Fathers. Women and children, 


7 IIE M OX. A S T EE V. 


403 


mixed with a few men, came in the rear, bewailing the 
apprehended desolation of their ancient sanctuary. They 
moved, however, in order, and restrained the marks of 
their sorrow to a low wailing sound, which rather min- 
gled with than interrupted the measured chant of the 
monks. 

In this order the procession entered the market-place of 
the village of Kennaquhair, which was then, as now, dis- 
tinguished by an ancient crossof curious workmanship, the 
gift of some former monarch of Scotland. Close by the 
cross, of much greater antiquity, and scarcely less hon- 
ored, was an immensely large oak-tree, which perhaps h?id 
witnessed the worship of the Druids, ere the stately Mon- 
astery to which it adjoined had raised its spires in honor 
of the Christian faith. Like the Bentang-tree of the 
African villages, or the Plaistow-oak mentioned in White’s 
Natural History of Selborne, this tree was the rendezvous 
of the villagers, and regarded with peculiar veneration ; a 
feeling common to most nations, and which perhaps may 
be traced up to the remote period when the patriarch 
feasted the angels under the oak at Mamre.* 

The monks formed themselves each in their due place 
around the cross, while under the ruins of the aged tree 
crowded the old and the feeble, with others who felt the 
common alarm. When they had thus arranged them- 
selves, there was a deep and solemn pause. The monks 
stilled their chant, the lay populace hushed their lamenta- 
tions, and all awaited in terror and silence the arrival of 
those heretical forces, whom they had been so long taught 
to regard with fear and trembling. 

A distant trampling was at length heard, and the glance 
of spears was seen to shine through the trees above the 
village. The sounds increased, and became more thick, 
one close continuous rushing sound, in which the tread of 
hoofs was mingled with the ringing of armor. The horse- 
men soon appeared at the principal entrance which leads 
into the irregular square or market-place which forms the 
centre of the village. They entered two by two, slowly, 
and in the greatest order. The van continued to move on, 
riding round the open space, until they had attained the ut- 
most point, and then turning their horses’ heads to the street, 
stood fast ; their companions followed in the same order, 
until the whole market-place was closely surrounded with 

* It is scarcely necessary to say, that in Melrose, the prototype of Ken- 
naquhair, no such oak ever existed. 


404 


THE MONASTERY. 


soldiers ; and the files who followed, making the same ma- 
noeuvre, formed an inner line within those who had first 
arrived, until the place was begirt with a quadruple file of 
horsemen closely drawn up. There was now a pause, of 
which the Abbot availed himself, by commanding the 
brotherhood to raise the solemn chant De profundis clamavi. 
He looked around the armed ranks to see what impression 
the solemn sounds made on them. All were silent, but the 
brows of some had an expression of contempt, and almost 
all the rest bore a look of indifference ; their course had 
been too long decided to permit past feelings of enthusiasm 
to«be anew awakened by a procession or by a hymn. 

“Their hearts are hardened/' said the Abbot to himself 
in dejection, but not in despair; “it remains to see 
whether those of their leaders are equally obdurate.” 

The leaders, in the meanwhile, were advancing slowly, 
and Murray, with Morton, rode in deep conversation be- 
fore a chosen band of their most distinguished followers, 
among whom came Halbert Glendinning. But the preacher 
Henry Warden, who, upon leaving the Monastery, had in- 
stantly joined them, was the only person admitted to their 
conference. 

“You are determined, then,” said Morton to Murray, 
“ to give the heiress of Avenel, with all her pretensions, to 
this nameless and obscure young man ?” 

“Hath not Warden told you,” said Murray, “that they 
have been bred together, and are lovers from their youth 
upward ? ” 

“And that they are both,” said Warden, “by means 
which maybe almost termed miraculous, rescued from the 
delusions of Rome, and brought within the pale of the true 
Church. My residence at Glendearg hath made me well 
acquainted with these things. Ill would it beseem my 
habit and my calling, to thrust myself into match-making 
and giving in marriage, but worse were it in me to see 
your lordships do needless wrong to the feelings which are 
proper to our nature, and which, being indulged honestly 
and under the restraints of religion, become a pledge of 
domestic quiet here, and future happiness in a better 
world. I say, that you will do ill to rend those ties asun- 
der, and to give this maiden to the kinsman of Lord Mor- 
ton, though Lord Morton’s kinsman he be.” 

“ These are fair reasons, my Lord of Murray,” said Mor- 
ton, “ why you should refuse me so simple a boon as to 
bestow this silly damsel upon young Bennygask. Speak 


THE MONASTERY. 


405 


out plainly, my lord ; say you would rather see the castle 
of Avenel in the hands of one who owes his name and ex- 
istence solely to your favor, than in the power of a Doug- 
las, and of my kinsman.” 

“ My Lord of Morton,” said Murray, “ I have done noth- 
ing in this matter which should aggrieve you. This young 
man Glendinning has done me good service, and may do 
me more. My promise was in some degree passed to him, 
and that while Julian Avenel was alive, when aught beside 
the maiden’s lily hand would have been hard to come by ; 
whereas, you never thought of such an alliance for your 
kinsman, till you saw Julian lie dead yonder on the fields 
and knew his land to be a waif free to the first who could 
seize it. Come, come, my lord, you do less than justice to 
your gallant kinsman, in wishing him a bride bred up 
under the milk-pail ; for this girl is a peasant wench in all 
but the accident of birth. I thought you had more deep 
respect for the honor of the Douglases.” 

“The honor of the Douglases is safe in my keeping,” 
answered Morton, haughtily ; “ that of other ancient fami- 
lies may suffer as well as the name of Avenel, if rustics 
are to be matched with the blood of our ancient barons.” 

“This is but idle talking,” answered Lord Murray ; “in 
times like these, we must look to men and not to pedigrees. 
Hay was but a rustic before the battle of Luncarty — the 
bloody yoke actually dragged the plough ere it was bla- 
zoned on a crest by the herald. Times of action make 
princes into peasants, and boors into barons. All families 
have sprung from one mean man ; and it is well if they 
have never degenerated from his virtue who raised them 
first from obscurity.” 

“ My Lord of Murray will please to except the house of 
Douglas,” said Morton, haughtily; “men have seen it in 
the tree, but never in the sapling — have seen it in the 
stream, but never in the fountain.* In the earliest of our 
Scottish annals, the Black Douglas was powerful and dis- 
tinguished as now.” 

“I bend to the honors of the house of Douglas,” said 
Murray, somewhat ironically ; “ I am conscious we of the 
Royal House have little right to compete with them in 
dignity — What though we have worn crowns and carried 
sceptres for a few generations if our genealogy moves no 
farther back than to the humble Alanus Dapifer /” f 

* Note L. Genealogy of the Douglas family, 
f Note M. Pedigree of the Stuarts. 


406 


THE MONASTERY. 


Morton’s cheek reddened as he was about to reply ; but 
Henry Warden availed himself of the liberty which the 
Protestant clergy long possessed, and exerted it to inter- 
rupt a discussion which was becoming too eager and per- 
sonal to be friendly. 

“ My lords,” he said, “ T must be bold in discharging the 
duty of my Master. It is a shame and scandal to hear 
two nobles, whose hands have been so forward in the work 
of reformation, fall into discord about such vain follies as 
now occupy your thoughts. Bethink you how long you 
have thought with one mind, seen with one eye, heard 
with one ear, confirmed by your union the congregation 
of the Church, appalled by your joint authority the con- 
gregation of Antichrist ; and will you now fall into dis- 
cord about an old decayed castle and a few barren hills, 
about the loves and likings of an humble spearman, and a 
damsel bred in the same obscurity, or about the still vainer 
questions of idle genealogy ? ” 

“ The good man hath spoken right, noble Douglas,” said 
Murray, reaching him his hand, “our union is too essen- 
tial to the good cause to be broken off upon such idle 
terms of dissension. I am fixed to gratify Glendinning in 
this matter — my promise is passed. The wars, in which I 
have had my share, have made many a family miserable ; 
I will at least try if I may not make one happy. There 
are maids and manors enow in Scotland. I promise you, my 
noble ally, that young Bennygask shall be richly wived.” 

“ My lord,” said Warden, “you speak nobly, and like a 
Christian. Alas ! this is a land of hatred and bloodshed — 
let us not chase from thence the few traces that remain of 
gentle and domestic love. — And be not too eager for 
wealth to thy noble kinsman, my Lord of Morton, seeing 
contentment in the marriage state no way depends on it.” 

“ If you allude to my family misfortune,” said Morton, 
whose Countess, wedded by him for her estate and honors, 
was insane in her mind, “the habit you wear, and the lib- 
erty, or rather license, of your profession, protect you from 
my resentment.” 

“ Alas ! my lord,” replied Warden, “ how quick and sensi- 
tive is our self-love ! When, pressing forward in our high 
calling, we point out the errors of the Sovereign, who 
praises our boldness more than the noble Morton ? But 
touch we upon his own sore, which most needs lancing, 
and he shrinks from the faithful chirurgeon in fear and 
impatient anger ! ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


407 


“Enough of this, good and reverend sir,” said Murray; 
“you transgress the prudence yourself recommended even 
now. — We are now close upon the village, and the proud 
Abbot is come forth at the l^ad of his hive. Thou hast 
pleaded well for him, Warden, otherwise I had taken this 
occasion to pull down the nest, and chase away the 
rooks.” 

“Nay, but do not so,” said Warden; “this William 
Allan, whom they call the Abbot Eustatius, is a man 
whose misfortunes would more prejudice our cause than 
his prosperity. You cannot inflict more than he will en- 
dure ; and the more that he is made to bear, the higher 
will be the influence of his talents and his courage. In his 
conventual throne he will be but coldly looked on — dis- 
liked, it may be, and envied. But turn his crucifix of gold 
into a crucifix of wood — let him travel through the land, 
an oppressed and impoverished man, and his patience, his 
eloquence, and learning, will win more hearts from the 
good cause, than all the mitred abbots of Scotland have 
been able to make prey of during the last hundred years.” 

“Tush ! tush ! man,” said Morton, “ the revenues of the 
Halidome will bring more men, spears, and horses, into 
the field in one day, than his preaching in a whole life- 
time. These are not the days of Peter the Hermit, when 
monks could march armies from England to Jerusalem ; 
but gold and good deeds will still do as much or more 
than ever. Had Julian Avenel had but a score or two 
more men this morning, Sir John Foster had not missed a 
worse welcome. I say confiscating the monk’s revenues 
is drawing his fang-teeth.” 

“ We will surely lay him under contribution,” said Mur- 
ray ; “ and, moreover, if he desires to remain in his Abbey, 
he will do well to produce Piercie Shafton.” 

As he thus spoke, they entered the market-place, distin- 
guished by their complete armor and their lofty plumes, 
as well as by the number of followers bearing their colors 
and badges. Both these powerful nobles, but more espe- 
cially Murray, so nearly allied to the crown, had at that 
time a retinue and household not much inferior to that of 
Scottish royalty. As they advanced into the market-place, 
a pursuivant, pressing forward from their train, addressed 
the monks in these words : — “The Abbot of Saint Mary’s 
is commanded to appear before the Earl of Murray.” 

“ The Abbot of Saint Mary’s,” said Eustace, “ is, in the 
patrimony of his Convent, superior to every temporal lord. 


408 


THE MONASTERY. 


Let the Earl of Murray, if he seeks him, come himself to 
his presence.” 

On receiving this answer, Murray smiled scornfully, 
and, dismounting from his lofty saddle, he advanced, ac- 
companied by Morton, and followed by others, to the body 
of monks assembled around the cross. There was an ap- 
pearance of shrinking among them at the approach of the 
heretic lord, so dreaded and so powerful. But the Abbot, 
casting on them a glance of rebuke and encouragement, 
stepped forth from their ranks like a courageous leader, 
when he sees that his personal valor must be displayed to 
revive the drooping courage of his followers. “ Lord 
James Stuart,” he said, “ or Earl of Murray, if that be 
thy title, I, Eustatius, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, demand by 
what right you have filled our peaceful village, and sur- 
rounded our brethren, with these bands of armed men ? If 
hospitality is sought, we have never refused it to courte- 
ous asking — if violence be meant against peaceful church- 
men, let us know at once the pretext and the object.” 

“ Sir Abbot,” said Murray, “ your language would better 
have become another age, and a presence inferior to ours. 
We come not here to reply to your interrogations, but to 
demand of you why you have broken the peace, collecting 
your vassals in arms, and convocating the Queen’s lieges, 
whereby many men have been slain, and much trouble, per- 
chance breach of amity with England, is likely to arise ? ” 

“ Lupus in fabuia answered the Abbot, scornfully. “ The 
wolf accused the sheep of muddying the stream when he 
drank in it above her — but it served as a pretext for de- 
vouring her. Convocate the Queen’s lieges ! I did so to 
defend the Queen's land against foreigners. I did but 
my duty,; and I regret I had not the means to do it more 
effectually.” 

“ And was it also a part of your duty to receive and har- 
bor the Queen of England’s rebel and traitor; and to in- 
flame a war betwixt England and Scotland ?” said Murray. 

“In my younger days, my lord,” answered the Abbot, 
with the same intrepidity, “a war with England was no 
such dreaded matter ; and not merely a mitred abbot, 
bound by his rule to show hospitality and afford sanc- 
tury to all, but the poorest Scottish peasant, would have 
been ashamed to have pleaded fear of England as the rea- 
son for shutting his door against a persecuted exile. But 
in those olden days, the English seldom saw the face of a 
Scottish nobleman, save through the bars of his visor.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


409 


“Monk,” said the Earl of Morton, sternly, “this inso- 
lence will little avail thee ; the days are gone by when 
Rome’s priests were permitted to brave nobleman with im- 
punity. Give us up this Piercie Shafton, or, by my father’s 
crest, I will set thy Abbey in a bright flame ! ” 

“And if thou dost, Lord of Morton, its ruins will tumble 
above the tombs of thine own ancestors. Be the issue as 
God wills, the Abbot of Saint Mary’s gives up no one 
whom lie hath promised to protect.” 

“Abbot!” said Murray, “bethink thee ere we are 
driven to deal roughly — the hands of these men,” he said, 
pointing to the soldiers, “will make wild work among 
shrines and cells, if we are compelled to undertake a search 
for this Englishman.” 

“Ye shall not need,” said a voice from the crowd ; and, 
advancing gracefully before the Earls, the Euphuist flung 
from him the mantle in which he was muffled. “Via the 
cloud that shadowed Shafton!” said he; “behold, my 
lords, the Knight of Wilverton, who spares you the guilt 
of violence and sacrilege.” 

“ I protest before God and man against any infraction 
of the privileges of this house,” said the Abbot, “ by an at- 
tempt to impose violent hands upon the person of this noble 
knight. . If there be yet spirit in a Scottish Parliament, we 
will make you hear of this elsewhere, my lords ! ” 

“ Spare your threats,” said Murray ; “ it may be my pur- 
pose with Sir Piercie Shafton is not such as thou dost sup- 
pose — Attach him, pursuivant, as our prisoner, rescue or 
no rescue.” 

“ I yield myself,” said the Euphuist, “reserving my right 
to defy my Lord of Murray and my Lord of Morton to 
single duel, even as one gentleman may demand satisfac- 
tion of another.” 

“ You shall not want those who will answer your chal- 
lenge, Sir Knight,” replied Morton, “without aspiring to 
men above thine own degree.” 

“And where am I to find these superlative champions,” 
said the English Knight, “whose blood runs more pure 
than that of Piercie Shafton ? ” 

“ Here is a flight for you, my lord ! ” said Murray. 

“As ever was flown by a wild-goose,” said Stawarth 
Bolton, who had now approached to the front of the party. 

“Who dared to say that word?” said the Euphuist, his 
face crimson with rage. 

“Tut! man,” said Bolton, “make the best of it, thy 


4io 


THE MONASTERY. 


mother’s father was but a tailor, old Overstitch of Holder- 
ness — Why, what! because thou art a misproud bird, and 
despiseth thine own natural lineage, and rufflest in unpaid 
silks and velvets, and keepest company with gallants and 
cutters, must we lose our memory for that? Thy mother, 
Moll Overstitch, was the prettiest wench in those parts — 
she was wedded by wild Shafton of Wilverton, who, men say, 
was akin to the Piercie on the wrong side of the blanket.” 

“ Help the knight to some strong waters,” said Morton, 
“he hath fallen from such a height, that he is stunned 
with the tumble.” 

In fact, Sir Piercie Shafton looked like a man stricken 
by a thunderbolt, while notwithstanding the seriousness of 
the scene hitherto, no one of those present, not even the 
Abbot himself, could refrain from laughing at the rueful 
and mortified expression of his face. 

“Laugh on,” he said at length, “laugh on, my masters,” 
shrugging his shoulders ; “ it is not for me to be offended 
— yet would I know full fain from that squire who is laugh- 
ing with the loudest, how he had discovered this unhappy 
blot in an otherwise spotless lineage, and for what purpose 
he hath made it known ?” 

“/make it known ?” said Halbert Glendinning, in as- 
tonishment, — for to him this pathetic appeal was made, — 
“I never heard the thing till this moment.”* 

“ Why, did not that old rude soldier learn it from thee ?” 
said the knight,, in increasing amazement. 

“Not I, by Heaven !” said Bolton ; “I never saw the 
youth in my life before.” 

“ But you have seen him ere now, my worthy master,” 
said Dame Glendinning, bursting in her turn from the 
crowd. “ My son, this is Stawarth Bolton, he to whom we 
owe life, and the means of preserving it — If he be a pris- 
oner, as seems most likely, use thine interest with these 
noble lords to be kind to the widow’s friend.” 

“What, my Dame of the Glen!” said Bolton; “thy 
brow is more withered, as well as mine, since we met last, 
but thy tongue holds the touch better than my arm. This 
boy of thine gave me the foil sorely this morning. The 
Brown Varlet has turned as stout a trooper as I prophe- 
sied ; -and where is White Head ? ” 

“ Alas ! ” said the mother, looking down, “ Edward has 
taken orders, and become a monk of this Abbey.” 


* Note N. The White Spirit. 


THE MONASTERY . 


411 


“ A monk and a soldier ! — Evil trades both, my good 
dame. Better have made one a good master fashioner, 
like old Overstitch of Holderness. I sighed when J envied 
you the two bonny children, but I sigh not now to call 
either the monk or the soldier mine own. The soldier dies 
in the field, the monk scarce lives in the cloister.” 

“My dearest mother,” said Halbert, “where is Edward 
—can I not speak with him ? ” 

“He has just left us for the present,” said Father Philip, 
“upon a message from the Lord Abbot.” 

“And Mary, my dearest mother?” said Halbert. — Mary 
Avenel was not far distant, and the three were soon with- 
drawn from the crowd, to hear and relate their various 
chances of fortune. 

While the subordinate personages thus disposed of 
themselves, the Abbot held serious discussion with the two 
Earls, and, partly yielding to their demands, partly defend- 
ing himself with skill and eloquence, was enabled to make 
a composition for his Convent, which left it provisionally 
in no worse situation than before. The Earls were the 
more reluctant to drive matters to extremity, since he pro- 
tested, that if urged beyond what his conscience would 
comply with, he would throw the whole lands of the Mon- 
astery into the Queen of Scotland’s hands, to be disposed 
of at her pleasure. This would not have answered the 
views of the Earls, who were contented, for the time, with 
a moderate sacrifice of money and lands. Matters being 
so far settled, the Abbot became anxious for the fate of 
Sir Piercie Shafton, and implored mercy in his behalf. 

“ He is a coxcomb,” he said, “my lords, but he is a gen- 
erous, though a vain fool ; and it is my firm belief you 
have this day done him more pain than if you had run a 
poniard into him.” 

“Run a needle into him, you mean, Abbot,” said the 
Earl of Morton ; “by mine honor, I thought this grandson 
of a fashioner of doublets was descended from a crowned 
head at least ! ” 

“ I hold with the Abbot,” said Murray ; “ there were 
little honor in surrendering him to Elizabeth, but he shall 
be sent where he can do her no injury. Our pursuivant 
and Bolton shall escort him to Dunbar, and ship him off 
for Flanders. — But soft, here he comes, and leading a fe- 
male as I think.” 

“Lords and others,” said the English knight with great 
solemnity, “make way for the lady of Piercie Shafton — a 


412 


THE MONASTERY. 


secret which I listed not to make known, till fate, which 
hath betrayed what I vainly strove to conceal, makes me 
less desirous to hide that which I now announce to you.” 

“ It is Mysie Happer, the Miller’s daughter, on my life ! ” 
said Tibb Tacket. “ I thought the pride of these Piercies 
would have a fa’.” 

“It is indeed the lovely Mysinda,” said the knight, 
“ whose merits toward her devoted servant deserved 
higher rank than he had to bestow.” 

“I suspect, though, “said Murray, “that we should not 
have heard of the Miller’s daughter being made a lady, 
had not the knight proved to be the grandson of a tailor.” 

“ My Lord,” said Piercie Shafton, “ it is poor valor to 
strike him that cannot smite again ; and I hope you will 
consider what is due to a prisoner by the law of arms, and 
say nothing more on this odious subject. When I am once 
more mine own man, I will find a new road to dignity.” 

“ Shape one, I presume,” said the Earl of Morton. 

“Nay, Douglas, you will drive him mad,” said Murray; 
“ besides, we have other matter in hand — I must see War- 
den wed Glendinning with Mary Avenel, and put him in 
possession of his wife’s castle without delay. It will be best 
done ere our forces leave these parts.” 

“And I,” said the Miller, “have the like grist to grind ; 
for I hope some one of the good fathers will wed my wench 
with her gay bridegroom.” 

“It needs not,” said Shafton; “the ceremonial hath 
been solemnly performed.” 

“ It will not be the worse of another bolting,” said the 
Miller ; “it is always best to be sure, as I say when I 
chance to take multure twice from the same meal-sack.” 

“ Stave the Miller off him,” said Murray, “ or he will 
worry him dead. The Abbot, my lord, offers us the hos- 
pitality of the Convent ; I move we should repair hither, 
Sir Piercie and all of us. I must learn to know the Maid 
of Avenel — to-morrow I must act as her father — All Scot- 
land shall see how Murray can reward a faithful servant.” 

Mary Avenel and her lover avoided meeting the Abbot, 
and took up their temporary abode in a house of the vil- 
lage, where next day their hands were united by the Prot- 
estant preacher in presence of the two Earls. On the 
same day Piercie Shafton and his bride departed, under an 
escort which was to conduct him to the sea-side, and see 
him embark for the Low Countries. Early on the follow- 
ing morning the bands of the Earls were under march to 


THE MONASTERY. 


413 

the Castle of Avenel, to invest the young bridegroom with 
the property of his wife, which was surrendered to them 
without opposition. 

But not without those omens which seemed to mark 
every remarkable event which befell the fated family did 
Mary take possession of the ancient castle of her fore- 
fathers. The same warlike form which had appeared more 
than once at Glendearg, was seen by Tibb Tacket and 
Martin, who returned with their young mistress to partake 
her altered fortunes. It glided before the cavalcade as 
they advanced upon the long causeway, paused at each 
drawbridge, and flourished its hand, as in triumph, as it 
disappeared under the gloomy archway, which was sur- 
mounted by the insignia of the house of Avenel. The two 
trusty servants made their vision only known to Dame 
Glendinning, who, w’ith much pride of heart, had accom- 
panied her son to see him take his rank among the barons 
of the land. “ Oh, my dear bairn ! ” she exclaimed, when 
she heard the tale, “the castle is a grand place to be sure, 
but I wish ye dinna a’ desire to be back in the quiet braes 
of Glendearg before the play be played out.” But this 
natural reflection, springing from maternal anxiety, was 
soon forgotten amid the busy and pleasing task of examin- 
ing and admiring the new habitation of her son. 

While these affairs were passing, Edward had hidden 
himself and his sorrows in the paternal Tower of Glen- 
dearg, where every object was full of matter for bitter 
reflection. The Abbot’s kindness had despatched him 
thither upon pretence of placing some papers belonging to 
the Abbey in safety and secrecy ; but in reality to prevent 
his witnessing the triumph of his brother. Through the 
deserted apartments, the scene of so many bitter reflec- 
tions, the unhappy youth stalked like a discontented ghost, 
conjuring up around him at every step new subjects for 
sorrow and for self-torment. Impatient, at length, of the 
state of irritation and agonized recollection in which he 
found himself, he rushed out and walked hastily up the 
glen, as if to shake off the load which hung upon his mind. 
The sun was setting when he reached the entrance of 
Corri-nan-shian, and the recollection of what he had seen 
when he last visited that haunted ravine, burst on his mind. 
He was in a humor, however, rather to seek out danger 
than to avoid it. 

“I will face this mystic being,” he said; “she foretold 
the fate which has wrapt me in this dress— I will know 


4H 


THE MONASTERY. 


whether she has aught else to Ull me of a life which can- 
not but be miserable.” 

He failed not to see the White Spirit seated by her accus- 
tomed haunt, and singing in her usual low and sweet tone. 
While she sung she seemed to look with sorrow on her 
golden zone, which was now diminished to the fineness of 
a silken thread. 

“Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 

Thou shalt seldom now be seen, 

With all thy glittering garlands bending, 

As to greet my slow descending, 

Startling the bewildered hind, 

Who sees thee wave without a wind. 

“ Farewell, Fountain ! now not long 
Shalt thou murmur to my song, 

While thy crystal bubbles glancing, 

Keep the time in mystic dancing, 

Rise and swell, are burst and lost, 

Like mortal schemes by fortune crost. 

“ The knot of fate at length is tied, 

The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride. 

Vainly did my magic sleight 
Send the lover from her sight ; 

Wither bush and perish well, 

Fall’n is lofty Avenel ! ” 

The vision seemed to weep while she sung ; and the 
words impressed on Edward a melancholy belief, that the al- 
liance of Mary with his brother might be fatal to them both. 


Here terminates the First Part of the Benedictine 1 s Manu- 
script . I have in vain endeavored to ascertain the precise period 
of the story , as the dates cannot he exactly reconciled with those 
of the most accredited histories. But it is astonishing how care- 
less the writers of Utopia are upon these important subjects. 1 
observe that the learned Mr. Laurence Templeton , in his late 
publication entitled Ivanhoe, has not only blessed the bed of Ed- 
ward the Confessor 7vith an offspring unknown to history , until 
sundry other solecisms of the same kind , but has inverted the order 
of nature, and feasted his swine with acorns in the midst of sum- 
mer. All that can be alleged by the warmest admirer of this 
author amounts to this — that the circumstances objected to are just 
as true as the rest of the story ; which appears to me [more espe- 
cially in the matter of the acorns ) to be a very imperfect defence , 
and that the author will do well to profit by Captain Absolute's 
advice to his servant , and never tell him more lies than are indis- 
pensably necessary. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


Note A, p. 6 . — Hillslap and Colmslie. 

[Mr. John Borthwick, of Crookston, in a note to the publisher (June 14, 
1843), says l h at Sir Walter has reversed the proprietorship of these towers 
— that Colmslie belonged to Mr. Innes of Stow, while Hillslap forms 
part of his estate of Crookston. He adds — “In proof that the tower of 
Hillslap, which I have taken measures to preserve from injury, was chiefly 
in his head, as the tower of Glendearg , when writing the Monastery, I may 
mention that, on one of the occasions when I had the honor of being a vis- 
itor at Abbotsford, the stables then being full, I sent a pony to be put up 
at our tenant’s at Hillslap : — ‘Well,’ said Sir Walter, ‘if you do that, you 
must trust for its not being lifted before to-morrow, to the protection of 
Halbert Glendinning against Christie of the Clinthill.’ At page 58, vol. 
iii. first edition, the ‘ winding stair ’ which the monk ascended is de- 
scribed. The winding stone stair is still to be seen in Hillslap, but not in 
either of the other two towers.” It is, however, probable, from the Goat’s- 
Head crest on Colmslie, that that tower also had been of old a possession 
of the Borth wicks.] 

Note B, p. 12 . — The White Lady, and Euphuism. 

[Referring to the “Monastery,” Mr. Lockhart, in his Memoirs of Scott, 
says he has little to add to the information afforded by the Author himself 
in his Introduction to the novel. 

“The Monastery was considered a failure — the first of the series on 
which any such sentence was pronounced ; — nor have I much to allege in 
favor of the White Lady of Avenel, generally criticized as the primary blot 
— or of Sfr Piercie Shafton, who was loudly, though not quite so generally, 
condemned. In either case, considered separately, Sir Walter seems to 
have erred from dwelling (in the German taste) on materials that might 
have done very well for a rapid sketch. The phantom with whom we have 
leisure to become familiar, is sure to fail — even the witch of Endor is con- 
tented with a momentary appearance and five syllables of the shade she 
evokes.” 

“The beautiful natural scenery, and the sterling Scotch characters and 
manners introduced in the Monastery, are, however, sufficient to redeem 
even these mistakes.” — J. G. Lockhart.] 

Note C, p. 58.— Gallantry. 

As gallantry of all times and nations has the same mode of thinking and 
acting, so it often expresses itself by the same symbols. In the civil war 
i 74$-6, a party of Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to Rose 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


416 

Castle, the seat of the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by the family 
of Squire Dacre, of Cumberland. They demanded quarters, which of 
course were not to be refused to armed men of a strange attire and un- 
known language. But the domestic represented to the captain of the 
mountaineers, that the lady of the mansion had been just delivered of a 
daughter, and expressed her hope, that, under these circumstances, his 
party would give as little trouble as possible. “ God forbid, ” said the 
gallant chief, “that I or mine should be the means of adding to a lady’s 
inconvenience at such a time. May I request to see the infant?” The 
child was brought, and the Highlander, taking his cockade out of his bon- 
net, and pinning it on the child’s breast, “ That will be a token,” he said, 
“to any of our people who may come hither, that Donald M ‘Donald of 
Kinloch-Moidart has taken the family of Rose Castle under his protection.” 
The lady who received in infancy this gage of Highland protection, is now 
Mary, Lady Clerk of Pennycuick ; and on the 10th of June still wears the 
cockade which was pinned on her breast, with a white rose as a kindred 
decoration. [Lady Mary Clerk died in Edinburgh in 1834 in her 89th 
year. ] 

Note D, p. 64. — Fairies. 

This superstition continues to prevail, though one would suppose it must 
now be antiquated. It is only a year or two since an itinerant puppet 
showman, who, disdaining to acknowledge the profession of Gines de Pas- 
samonte, called himself an artist from Vauxhall, brought a complaint of a 
singular nature befdre the author, as Sheriff of Selkirkshire. The sin- 
gular dexterity with which the showman had exhibited the machinery of 
his little stage, had, upon a Selkirk fair-day, excited the eager curiosity of 
some mechanics of Galashiels. These men, from no worse motive that 
could be discovered than a thirst after knowledge beyond their sphere, 
committed a burglary upon the barn in which the puppets had been con- 
signed to repose, and carried them off in the nook of their plaids, when 
returning from Selkirk to their own village. 

“ But with the morning cool reflection came.” 

The party found, however, they could not make Punch dance, and that 
the whole troop were equally intractable ; they had also, perhaps, some 
apprehensions of the Rhadamanth of the district ; and, willing to be quit 
of their booty, they left the puppets seated in a grove by the side of the 
Ettrick, where they were sure to be touched by the first beams of the rising 
sun. Here a shepherd, who was on foot with sunrise to pen his master’s 
sheep on a field of turnips, to his utter astonishment, saw this train, pro- 
fusely gay, sitting in the little grotto. His examination proceeded thus : — 

Sheriff. — You saw these gay-looking things ? what did you think they 
were ? 

Shepherd. — Ou, I am no that free to say what I might think they were. 

Sheriff. — Come, lad, I must have a direct answer — who did you think 
they were ? 

Shepherd. — Ou, sir, troth I am no that free to say that I mind wha I 
might think they were. 

Sheriff. — Come, come, sir! I ask you distinctly, did you think they 
were the fairies you saw ? 

Shepherd. — Indeed, sir, and I winna say but I might think it was the 
Good Neighbors. 

Thus unwillingly was he brought to allude to the irritable and captious in- 
habitants of fairy land. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


417 


Note E, p. 84. — Drawbridge at Bridge-end. 

A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in the text, actually 
existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a half above Melrose, called 
from the circumstance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed in Gordon’s Itiner - 
arium Septentrionale : — 

“ In another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mile 
and a half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remains of a 
curious bridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three octangular pillars, 
or rather towers, standing within the water, without any arches to join them. 
The middle one, which is the most entire, has a door toward the north, 
and I suppose, another opposite one toward the south, which I could not 
see without crossing the water. In the middle of this tower is a projection 
or cornice surrounding it : the whole is hollow from the door upward, and 
now open at the top, near which is a small window. I was informed that 
not long ago a countryman and his family lived in this tower — and got his 
livelihood by laying out planks from pillar to pillar, and conveying passen- 
gers over the river. Whether this be ancient or modern, I know not ; but 
as it is singular in its kind, I have thought fit to exhibit it.” 

The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and the au- 
thor has often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting down the 
Tweed at night, for the purpose of killing salmon by torch-light. Mr. John 
Mercer of Bridge-end recollects, that about fifty years ago the pillars were 
visible above water ; and the late Mr. David Kyle of the George Inn, 
Melrose, told the author that he saw a stone taken from the river bearing 
this inscription : — 

“ I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede, 

Give an hundred markis of gowd sae reid, 

To help to bigg my brigg ower Tweed.” 

Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, was the Baron to whom 
the bridge belonged. 

Note F, p. 177. — Quaint Epithets. 

There are many instances to be met with in the ancient dramas of this 
whimsical and conceited custom of persons who formed an intimacy dis- 
tinguishing each other by some quaint epithet. In Every Man out of his 
Humor , there is a humorous debate upon names most fit ,to bind the rela- 
tion betwixt Sogliardo and Cavaliero Shift, which ends by adopting those 
of Countenance and Resolution. What is more to the point is in the speech 
of Hedon, a voluptuary and a courtier in Cynthia’s Revels. “You know 
that I call Madam Plilantia my Honor, and she calls me her Ambition. 
Now, when I meet her in the presence anon, I will come to her and say, 
‘ Sweet Honor, I have hitherto contented my sense with the lilies of your 
hand, and now I will taste the roses of your lip.’ To which she cannot 
but blushing answer, ‘Nay, now you are too ambitious ;’ and then do I 
reply, ‘ I cannot be too ambitious of Honor, sweet lady. Wilt not be 
good? ’ ” — I think there is some remnant of this foppery preserved in Ma- 
sonic Lodges, where each brother is distinguished by a name in the Lodge, 
signifying some abstract quality, as Discretion, or the like. See the Masonic 
Songs of Gavin Wilson, Poet Laureate to the Lodge of St. David’s. Edin. 
1788. 

Note G, p. 193. — Rowi.and Yorke and Stukely. 

“ Yorke,” says Camden, “ was a Londoner, a man of loose and dissolute 
behavior, and desperately audacious — famous in his time amongst the com* 

27 


4iS 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


mon bullies and swaggerers, as being the first that, to the great admiration 
of many at his boldness, brought into England the bold and dangerous way 
of fencing with the rapier in duelling. Whereas, till that time, the English 
used to fight with long swords and bucklers, striking with the edge, and 
thought it no part of man either to push or strike beneath the girdle.” 

Having a command in the Low Countries, Yorke revolted to the Span- 
iards, and died miserably, poisoned, as was supposed, by his new allies. 
Three years afterwards his bones were dug up and gibbeted by the com- 
mand of the States of Holland. 

Thomas Stukely, another distinguished gallant of the time, was bred a 
merchant, being the son of a rich clothier in the west. He wedded the 
daughter and heiress of a wealthy alderman of London named Curtis, after 
whose death he squandered the riches he thus acquired in all manner of 
extravagance. His wife, whose fortune supplied his waste, represented to 
him that he ought to make more of her. Stukely replied, “ I will make 
as much of thee, believe me, as it is possible for any to do ; ” and he kept 
his word in one sense, having stripped her even of her wearing apparel be- 
fore he finally ran away from her. 

Having fled to Italy, he contrived to impose upon the Pope with a plan 
of invading Ireland, for which he levied soldiers, and made some prepara- 
tions, but ended by engaging himself and his troops in the service of King 
Sebastian of Portugal. He sailed with that prince on his fatal voyage to 
Barbary, and fell with him at the battle of Alcazar. 

Stukely, as one of the first gallants of the time, has had the honor to be 
chronicled in song, in Evans’s Old Ballads , vol. iii. , edition 1810. His 
fate is also introduced in a tragedy by George Peel, as has been supposed, 
called the Battle of Alcazar, from which play Dryden is alleged to have 
taken the idea of Don Sebastian ; if so, it is surprising he omitted a char- 
acter so congenial to King Charles the Second’s time, as the witty, brave, 
and profligate Thomas Stukely. 


Note H, p. 274. — Juj.ian Avenel. 

If it were necessary to name a prototype for this brutal, licentious, and 
cruel Border chief, in an age which showed but too many such, the Laird 
of Black Ormiston * might be selected for that purpose. He was a friend 
and confidant of Bothwell, and an agent in Henry Darnley’s murder. At 
his last stage he was, like other great offenders, a seeming penitent ; and, 
as his confession bears, divers gentlemen and servants being in the cham- 
ber, he said, “For God’s sake, sit down and pray for me, for I have been 
a great sinner otherwise ” (that is, besides his share in Darnley’s death), 
“for the which God is this day punishing me ; for of all men on the earth, 
I have been one of the proudest, and most high-minded, and most unclean 
of my body. But specially I have shed the innocent blood of one Michael 
Hunter with my own hands. Alas, therefore ! because the said Michael, 
having me lying on my back, having a fork in his hand, might have slain 
me if he had pleased, and did it not, which of all things grieves me most 
in conscience. Also, in a rage I hanged a poor fcian for a horse ; — with 
many other wicked deeds, for whilk I ask my God mercy. It is not marvel 
I have been wicked, considering the wicked company that ever I have been 
in, but specially within the seven years by-past, in which I never saw two 
good men or one good deed, but all kind of wickedness, and yet God 
would not suffer me to be lost.” — See the whole confession in the State 
Trials. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


419 


Another worthy of the Borders, called Geordy Bourne, of somewhat 
subordinate rank, was a similar picture of profligacy. He had fallen into 
the hands of Sir Robert Carey, then Warden of the English East Marches, 
who gives the following account of his prisoner’s confession : — 

“When all things were quiet, and the watch set at night, after supper, 
about ten of the clock, I took one of my men’s liveries, and put it about 
me, and took two other of my servants with me in their liveries ; and we 
three, as the Warden’s men, came to the Provost Marshal’s, where Bourne 
was, and were let into his chamber. We sate down by him, and told him 
that we were desirous to see him, because we heard he was stout and val- 
iant, and true to his friend, and that we were sorry our master could not be 
moved to save his life. He, voluntarily of himself, said that he had lived 
long enough to do so many villanies as he had done ; and withal, told us 
that he had lain with above forty men’s wives — what in England, what in 
Scotland ; and that he had killed seven Englishmen with his own hands, 
cruelly murdering them ; and that he had spent his whole time in whoring,' 
drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight offences. He seemed 
to be very penitent, and much desired a minister for the comfort of his 
soul. We promised him to let our master know his desire, who, we knew, 
would promptly grant it. We took leave of him ; and presently I took 
order that Mr. Selby, a very honest preacher, should go to him, and not 
stir from him till his execution the next morning ; for after I had heard 
his own confession, I was resolved no conditions should save his life, and 
so took order, that at the gates opening the next morning, he should be 
carried to execution, which accordingly was performed.” — Memoirs of Sir 
Robert Carey , Earl of Monmouth. 

[This incident is also referred to in one of the notes to A Legend of 
Montrose , p. 135.] 

Note I, p. 300 . — Foppery of the Sixteenth Century. 

Sir Piercie Shafton’s extreme love of dress was an attribute of the 
coxcombs of this period. The display made by their forefathers was in 
the numbers of their retinue ; but as the actual influence of the nobility 
began to be restrained both in France and England by the increasing 
power of the Crown, the indulgence of vanity in personal display became 
more inordinate. There are many allusions to this change of custom in 
Shakspeare and other dramatic writers, where the reader may find mention 
made of 

“ Bonds enter’d into 

For gay apparel against the triumph day.” 

Jonson informs us, that for the first entrance of a gallant, “’tweregood 
you turned four or five hundred acres of your best land into two or three 
trunks of apparel.” — Every Man out of his Humor. 

In the Memorie of the Somerville family, a curious instance occurs of 
this fashionable species of extravagance. In the year 1537, when James 
Y. brought over his short-lived bride from France, the Lord Somerville of 
the day was so profuse in the expense of his apparel, that the money which 
he borrowed on the occasion was compensated by a perpetual annuity of 
threescore pounds Scottish, payable out of the barony of Carnwath till 
doomsday, which was assigned by the creditor to Saint Magdalen’s Chapel. 
By this deep expense the Lord Somerville had rendered himself so glorious 
in apparel, that the King, who saw so brave a gallant enter the gate of 
Holyrood, followed by only two pages, called upon several of the courtier* 


420 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


to ascertain who it could be who was so richly dressed and so slightly at- 
tended, and he was not recognized until he entered the presence-chamber. 
“ You are very brave, my lord,” said the King as he received his homage ; 
“but where are all your men and attendants?” The Lord Somerville 
readily answered, “If it please your Majesty, here they are,” pointing to 
the lace that was on his own and his pages 7 clothes ; whereat the King 
laughed heartily, and having surveyed the finery more nearly, bade him 
have away with it all, and let him have his stout band of spears again. 

There is a scene in Jonson’s E.very. Rian out of his Hiimor (Act IV. 
Scene 6), in which a Euphuist of the time gives an account of the effects of 
a duel on the clothes of himself and his opponent, and never departs a syl- 
lable from the catalogue of his wardrobe. We shall insert it in evidence 
that the foppery of our ancestors was not inferior to that of our own 
time. 

“ Fastidius. Good faith, signior, now you speak of a quarrel, I’ll ac- 
quaint you with a difference that happened between a gallant and myself, 
Sir Puntarvolo. You know him if I should name him — Signior Luculento. 

“ Punt. Luculento! What inauspicious chance interposed itself to 
your two loves ? 

“Fast. Faith, sir, the same that sundered Agamemnon, and great 
Thetis’ son ; but let the cause escape, sir. He sent me a challenge, mixt 
with some few braves, which I restored ; and, in fine, we met. Now in- 
deed, sir, I must tell you, he did offer at first very desperately, but with- 
out judgment ; for, look you, sir, I cast myself into this figure ; now he 
came violently on, and withal, advancing his rapier to strike, I thought to 
have took his arm, for he had left his body to my election, and I was sure 
he could not recover his guard. Sir, I mist my purpose in his arm, rashed 
his doublet sleeves, ran him close by the left cheek and through his hair. 
He, again, light me here — I had on a gold cable hat-band, then new come 
up, about a murrey French hat I had ; cuts my hat-band, and yet it was 
massy goldsmith’s work, cuts my brim, which, by good fortune, being thick 
embroidered with gold twist and spangles, disappointed the force of the 
blow ; nevertheless it grazed on my shoulder, takes me a>vay six purls of an 
Italian cut-work band I wore, cost me three pounds in the Exchange but 
three days before 

“Punt. This was a strange encounter. 

“East. Nay, you shall hear, sir. With this, we both fell out and 
breathed. Now, upon the second sign of his assault, I betook me to my 
former manner of defence ; he, on the other side, abandoned his body to 
the same danger as before, and follows me still with blows ; but I, being 
loath to take the deadly advantage that lay before me of his left side, made 
a kind of stramazoun, ran him up to the hilt through the doublet, through 
the shirt, and yet missed the skin. He, making a reverse blow, falls upon 
my embossed girdle — I had thrown off the hangers a little before — strikes 
off a skirt of a thick-laced satin doublet I had, lined with four taffetas, cuts 
off two panes embroidered with pearl, rends through the drawings-out of 
tissue, enters the linings, and skips the flesh. 

“ Car. I wonder he speaks not of his wrought shirt. 

“Fast. Here, in the opinion of mutual damage, we paused. But, ere 
I proceed, I must tell you, signior, that in the last encounter, not having 
leisure to put off my silver spurs, one of the rowels catched hold of the 
ruffles of my boot, and being Spanish leather, and subject to tear, over- 
throws me, rends me two pair of silk stockings that I put on, being some- 
what of a raw morning, a peach color and another, and strikes me some 
half-inch deep into the side of the calf : He, seeing the blood come, pres* 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


421 


ently takes horse and away ; I having bound up my wound with a piece of 
my wrought shirt 

“ Car. O, comes it in there? 

“East. Ride after him, and, lighting at the court-gate both together, 
embraced, and marched hand in hand up into the presence. Was not this 
business well carried ? 

“Mad. Well ! yes ; and by this we can guess what apparel the gentle- 
man wore. 

“Punt. ’Fore valor! it was a designment begun with much resolution, 
maintained with as much prowess, and ended with more humanity.” 

Note J, p. 362. — Good Faith of the Borderers. 

As some atonement for their laxity of morals on most occasions, the 
Borderers were severe observers of the faith which they had pledged, even 
to an enemy. If any person broke his word so plighted, the individual to 
whom faith had not been observed, used to bring to the next Border-meet- 
ing a glove hung on the point of a spear, and proclaim to Scots and Eng- 
lish the name of the defaulter. This was accounted so great a disgrace 
to all connected with him, that his own clansmen sometimes destroyed 
him, to escape the infamy he had brought on them. 

Constable, a spy engaged by Sir Ralph Sadler, talks of two Border 
thieves, whom he used as his guides: — “That they would not care to 
steal, and yet that they would not betray any man that trusts in them, for 
all the gold in Scotland or in France. They are my guides and outlaws. 
If they would betray me they might get their pardons, and cause me to be 
hanged; but I have tried them ere this.” — Sadler's Letters during the 
Northern Insurrection. 

Note K, p. 364. — Indulgences to the Monks. 

The biberes, caritas, and boiled almonds, of which Abbot Boniface 
speaks, were special occasions for enjoying luxuries, afforded to the monks 
by grants from different sovereigns, or from other benefactors to the convent. 
There is one of these charters called De Pitancia Centum Librarum. By 
this charter, which is very curious, our Robert Bruce, on the 10th January, 
and in the twelfth year of his reign, assigns, out of the customs of Ber- 
wick, and failing them, out of the customs of Edinburgh or Haddington, 
the sum of one hundred pounds, at the half-yearly terms of Pentecost and 
Saint Martin’s in winter, to the Abbot and community of the monks of 
Melrose. The precise purpose of this annuity is to furnish to each of the 
monks of the said monastery, while placed at food in the refectory, an 
extra mess of rice boiled with milk, or of almonds, or peas, or other pulse 
of that kind which could be procured in the country. This addition to 
their commons is to be entitled the King’s Mess. And it is declared, that 
although any monk should, from some honest apology, want appetite or in- 
clination to eat of the king’s mess, his share should, nevertheless, be 
placed on the table with those of his brethren, and afterwards carried to 
the gate and given to the poor. “Neither is it our pleasure,” continues 
the bountiful sovereign, “ that the dinner, which is or ought to be served 
up to the said monks according to their ancient rule, should be diminished 
in quantity, or rendered inferior in quality, on account of this our mess, so 
furnished as aforesaid.” It is, moreover, provided, that the abbot, with 
the consent of the most sage of his brethren, shall name a prudent and de- 


422 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


cent monk for receiving, directing, and expending, all matters concerning 
this annuity for the benefit of the community, agreeably to the royal desire 
and intention, rendering a faithful account thereof to the abbot and su- 
periors of the same convent. And the same charter declares the king’s 
farther pleasure, that the said men of religion should be bound yearly and 
forever, in acknowledgment of the above donation, to clothe fifteen poor 
men at the feast of Saint Martin in winter, and to feed them on the same 
day, delivering to each of them four ells of large or broad, or six ells of 
narrow cloth, and to each also a new pair of shoes or sandals, according to 
their order ; and if the said monks shall fail in their engagements, or any 
of them, it is the king’s will that the fault shall be redeemed by a double 
performance of what has been omitted, to be executed at the sight of the 
chief forester of Ettrick for the time being, and before the return of Saint 
Martin’s day succeeding that on which the omission has taken place. 

Of this charter, respecting the pittance of ;£ioo assigned to furnish the 
monks of Melrose with a daily mess of boiled rice, almonds, or other pulse, 
to mend their commons, the antiquarian reader will be pleased, doubtless, 
to see the original. 


Carta Regis Roberti I. Abbati et Conventui de Melross. 

Carta de Pitancia Centum Librarum. 

“ Robertus Dei gracia Rex Scottorum omnibus probis hominibus tocius 
terre sue Salutem. Sciatis nos pro salute anime nostre et pro salute ani- 
marum antecessorum et successorum nostrorum Regum Scocie Dedisse 
Concessisse et hac presenti Carta nostra confirmasse Deo et Beate Marie 
virgini et Religiosis viris Abbati et Conventui de Melross et eorum suc- 
cessoribus in perpetuum Centum Libras Sterlingorum Annui Redditus 
singulis annis percipiendas de firmis nostris Burgi Berwici super Twedam 
ad terminos *Pentecostis et Sancti Martini in hyeme pro equali portione vel 
de nova Custuma nostra Burgi predicti si firme nostre predicte ad dictam 
summam pecunie sufftcere non poterunt vel de nova Custuma nostra Bur- 
gorum nostrorum de Edenburg et de Hadington Si firme nostre et Custuma 
nostx*a ville Berwici aliquo casu contingente ad hoc forte non sufficiant. 
Ita quod dicta summa pecunie Centum Librarum eis annuatim integre et 
absque contradictione alique plenarie persolvatur precunctis aliis quibus- 
cunque assignacionibus per nos factis seu faciendis ad inveniendum in per- 
petuum singulis diebus cuilibet monacho monasterii predicti comedenti in 
Refectorio unum sufificiens ferculum. risarum factarum cum lacte, amigdal- 
arum vel pisarum sive aliorum ciborum consimilis condicionis inventorum 
in patria et illud ferculum Regis vocabitur in eternum. Et si aliquis 
monachus ex aliqua causa honesta de dicto ferculo comedere noluerit 
vel refici non poterit non minus attamen sibi de dicto ferculo ministretur et 
ad portam pro pauperibus deportetur. Nec volumus quod occasione ferculi 
nostri predicti prandium dicti Conventus de quo antiquitus communiter eis 
deserviri sive ministrari solebat in aliquo pejoretur seu diminuatur. Vol- 
umus insuper et ordinamus quod Abbas ejusdem monasterii qui pro tempore 
fuerit de consensu saniorum de Conventu specialiter constituat unum 
monachum providum et discretum ad recipiendum ordinandum et expen- 
dendum totam summam pecunie memorate pro utilitate conventus secundum 
votum et intencionem mentis nostre superius annotatum et ad reddendum 
fidele compotum coram Abbate et Maioribus de Conventu singulis annis de 
pecunia sic recepta. Et volumus quod dicti religiosi teneantur annuatim 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


423 


in perpetuum pro predicta donacione nostra ad perpetuam nostri memoriam 
vestire quindecim pauperes ad festum Sancti Martini in hieme et eosdem 
cibare eodem die liberando eorum cuilibet quatuor ulnas panni grossi et 
lati vel sex ulnas panni stricti et eorum cuilibet unum novum par sotularium 
de ordine suo. Et si dicti religiosi in premissis vel aliquo premissorum 
aliquo anno defecerint volumus quod illud quod minus perimpletum fuerit 
dupplicetur diebus magis necessariis per visum capitalis forestarii nostri de 
Selkirk, qui pro tempore fuerit. Et quod dicta dupplicatio fiat ante natela 
domini proximo sequens festum Sancti Martini predictum. In cujus rei 
testimonium presenti Carte nostre sigillum nostrum precipimus apponi. 
Testibus venerabilibus in Christo patribus Willielmo, Johanne, Willielmo 
et David Sancti Andree, Glasguensis, Dunkeldensis et Moraviensis ecclesi- 
arum dei gracia episcopis Bernardo Abbate de Abirbrothock Cancellario, 
Duncano, Malisio, et Hugone de Fyf de Strathin et de Ross, Comitibus 
Waltero Senescallo Scocie. Jacobo domino de Duglas et Alexandre Fraser 
Camerario nostro Scocie militibus. Apud Abirbrothock, decimo die Jhn- 
uarij. Anno Regni nostri vicesimo.” 


Note L, p. 405 . — Genealogy of the Douglas Family. 

The late excellent and laborious antiquary, Mr. George Chalmers, has 
rebuked the vaunt of the House of Douglas, or rather of Hume of Gods- 
croft, their historian, but with less than his wonted accuracy. In the first 
volume of his Caledonia, he quotes the passage in Godscroft for the pur- 
pose of confuting it. 

The historian (of the Douglases) cries out, “ We do not know them in 
the fountain, but in the stream ; not in the root, but in the stem ; for we 
know not which is the mean man that did rise above the vulgar.” This 
assumption Mr. Chalmers conceives ill-timed, and alleges, that if the his- 
torian had attended more to research than to declamation, he might easily 
have seen the first mean man of this renowned family. This He alleges to 
have been one Theobaldus Flammaticus, or Theobald the Fleming, to whom 
Arnold, Abbot of Kelso, between the years 1147 and 1160, granted certain 
lands on Douglas water, by a deed which Mr. Chalmers conceives to be the 
first link of the chain of title-deeds to Douglasdale. Hence, he says, the 
family must renounce their family domain, or acknowledge this obscure 
Fleming as their ancestor. Theobald the Fleming, it is acknowledged, did 
not himself assume the name of Douglas ; “but,” says the antiquary, “ his 
son William, who inherited his estate, called himself, and was named by 
others, De Duglas ; ” and he refers to the deeds in which he is so designed. 
Mr. Chalmers’ full argument may be found in the first volume of his Cale- 
donia, p. 579. 

This proposition is one which a Scotsman will admit unwillingly, and 
only upon undeniable testimony ; and as it is liable to strong grounds of 
challenge, the present author, with all the respect to Mr. Chalmers which 
his zealous and effectual researches merit, is not unwilling to take this op- 
portunity to state some plausible grounds for doubting that Theobaldus 
Flammaticus was either the father of the first William de Douglas, or in 
the slightest degree connected with the Douglas family. 

It must first be observed, that there is no reason whatever for concluding 
Theobaldus Flammaticus to be the father of William de Douglas, except 
that they both held lands upon the small river of Douglas ; and that there 
are two strong presumptions to the contrary. For, first, the father being 
named Fleming, there seems no good reason why the son should have as- 


424 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


sumed a different designation : secondly, there does not occur a single in- 
stance of the name of Theobald during the long line of the Douglas pedigree, 
an omission very unlikely to take place had the original father of the race 
been so called. These are secondary considerations indeed ; but they are 
important, in so far as they exclude any support of Mr. Chalmers’ system, 
except from the point which he has rather assumed than proved, namely, 
that the lands granted to Theobald the Fleming were the same which were 
granted to William de Douglas, and which constituted the original domain 
of which w’e find this powerful family lords. 

Now, it happens, singularly enough, that the lands granted by the Abbot 
of Kelso to Theobaldus Flammaticus are not the same of which William 
de Douglas was in possession. Nay, it would appear, from comparing the 
charter granted to Theobaldus Flammaticus, that, though situated on the 
water of Douglas, they never made a part of the barony of that name, and 
therefere cannot be the same with those held by William de Douglas in 
the succeeding generation. But if William de Douglas did not succeed 
Theobaldus Flammaticus, there is no more reason for holding these two 
persons to be father and son than if they had lived in different provinces ; 
and we are still as far from having discovered the first mean man of the 
Douglas family as Hume of Godscroft was in the 16th century. We leave 
the question to antiquaries and genealogists. 


Note M, p. 405. — Pedigree of the Stuarts. 

To atone to the memory of the learned and indefatigable Chalmers for 
having ventured to impeach his genealogical proposition concerning the 
descent of the Douglases, we are bound to render him our grateful thanks 
for the felicitous light which he has thrown on that of the House of Stuart, 
still more important to Scottish history. 

The acute pen of Lord Hailes, which, like the spear of Ithuriel, conjured 
so many shtdows from Scottish history, had dismissed among the rest those 
of Banquo and Fleance, the rejection of which fables left the illustrious 
family of Stuart without an ancestor beyond Walter the son of Allan, 
who is alluded to in the text. The researches of our late learned antiquary 
detected in this Walter, the descendant of Allan, the son of Flaald, who 
obtained from William the Conquerer the Castle of Oswestry in Shropshire, 
and was the father of an illustrious line of English nobles, by his first son 
William, and by his second son Walter, the progenitor of the royal family 
of Stuart. 


Note N, p. 410 . — The White Spirit. 

The contrivance of provoking the irritable vanity of Sir Piercie Shafton, 
by presenting him with a bodkin, indicative of his descent from a tailor, is 
borrowed from a German romance, by the celebrated Tieck, called Das 
Peter Mannchen, i.c. The Dwarf Peter. The being who gives name to the 
tale, is the Burg-geist, or castle spectre, of a German family, whom he aids 
with his counsel, as he defends their castle by his supernatural power. 
But the Dwarf Peter is so unfortunate an adviser, that all his counsels, 
though producing success in the immediate results, are in the issue attended 
with mishap and with guilt. The youthful baron, the owner of the haunted 
castle, falls in love with a maiden, the daughter of a neighboring count, 
a man of great pride, who refuses him the hand of the young lady, on ac- 
count of his own superiority of descent. The lover, repulsed and affronted. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


425 


returns to take counsel with the Dwarf Peter, how he may silence the count, 
and obtain the victory in the argument, the next time they enter on the 
topic of pedigree. The dwarf gives his patron or pupil a horse-shoe, in- 
structing him to give it to the count when he is next giving himself superior 
airs on the subject of his family. It has the effect accordingly. The 
count, understanding it as- an allusion to a misalliance of one of his ances- 
tors with the daughter of a blacksmith, is thrown into a dreadful passion 
with the young lover, the consequences of which are the seduction of the 
young lady, and the slaughter of her father. 

If we suppose the dwarf to represent the corrupt part of human nature, — 
that “law in our members which wars against the law of our minds,” — the 
work forms an ingenious allegory. 










GLOSSARY TO THE MONASTERY 
AND THE ABBOT. 


A’, all. 

Ae, one. 

Aefauld, honest. 

Ain, own. 

Aver, draught-horse. 

Bailie, a magistrate. 

Bairn, a child. 

Bedral, a sexton. 

Beef-brewis, beef-soup. 

Ben , far ben, well on, successful, very inti- 
mate. 

Bield, shelter. 

Birn, a burn. 

Bodle, a small copper coin. 

Bow, a boll measure. 

Bower-woman, lady’s-maid. 

Braw, brave, fine. 

Broach, a roasting spit. 

Brochan, a sort of thick gruel. 

Brogg, to prick or stick with a goad or 
lance. 

Burn, a brook. 

Busk, to deck. 

Callet, the head. 

Cantrip, a frolic. 

Cantv, cheerful. 

Carle, a fellow. 

Carli ne, a witch. 

Cawker, the sharpened heels of a horse- 
shoe. 

Chimley, chimney. 

Clap and happer, signs of investiture into 
mill property. 

Clecking, hatching. 

Cleuch, a ravine or dell. 

Cloot, a rag. 

Cock-laird, a small squire who tills his own 
land. 

Coffe, merchant. 

Cogging knave, greedy fellow. 

Collops, minced meat. 

Cracks, gossip, yarns. 

Cummer, neighbor. 

Cushat, the ring-dove. 

Baffin, larking. 

Darg, a task, work. 

Deil, devil. 

Dight your gabs, wipe your mouth, hold 
your tongue. 

Douce, quiet. > 


Earded, buried. 

Ee, eye. 

Erne, the eagle. 

Fash, trouble. 

Fend, to provide. 

Firlot. quarter of a boll measure. 
Freighter, to flicker. 

Forbears, ancestors. 

Forby, besides. 

Forgather, take up with, become intimate^ 
Fou, full, drunk. 

Frae, from. 

Galligaskin, a wide sort of trouser. 

Gate, way, direction. 

Gazf.-hound, a dog that hunts by the eye, 
a greyhound. 

Gear, property. 

Ger or gar, to cause, make, or force. 

Gled, the kite. 

Gleg, smart. 

Gey thick, pretty thick. 

Guff, a glance. 

God sain, God bless. 

Greet, to cry or weep. 

Grist, grain sent to a mill in payment for 
grinding. 

Gudeman, the husband or head of the house. 
Gyre-carline, hag, hobgoblin. 

Hae, have. 

Haill, whole. 

Haggis, a pudding of minced meat, oat- 
meal, and spice. 

Halidome, the sanctuary or land held un- 
der an abbey or convent. 

Hap, to cover up. 

Haud, to hold. 

Heather-bleathr, the mire-snipe. 

Hkmpie, a lad. 

FIirsel, a flock or drove. 

Hokse-couper, horse-dealer. 

Howff, a retreat, place of meeting. 

Howk, to dig. 

Ilk, each. 

Ingyre, to introduce one’s-self cunningly. 

Joe, a sweetheart. 

Jouk, to shift or incline. 


428 GLOSSARY TO THE MONASTERY AND THE ABBOT. 


Kail worm, cabbage worm. 

Kain fowls, poultry due to the landlord as 
part of the rent. 

Keeking-glass, a looking-glass. 

Kkndna, knew not. 

Kenspeckle, conspicuous, odd-like. 
Kestrel, a species of hawk. 

Kipper, dried salmon. 

Kirn, a churn. 

Kirn milk, buttermilk. 

Kittle, ticklish, sly. 

Knowe, a knoll. 

Kyte, the belly. 

Lamping, taking long strides. 

Lawing, the account or bill. 

I ,ee, lie. 

Lenten kail. Lent or thin broth. 

I.ikit, liked. 

Limmer, a scoundrel. 

Ling, long dry grass. 

Lippy, quarter of a peck measure. 

Lither, lazy. 

Lone, lonely. 

Lunt, a match. 

Lurdane, worthless. 

Meal-girnel, meal-chest. 

Melder, the portion of meal sent for grind- 
ing to the mill at one time. 

Messan, a cur. 

Misleared, ill-bred. 

Moss-hag, a bog-pit. 

Mug-ewe, a long-woolled sheep. 

My certes ! my faith ! 

Neist, next. 

Out o’ gate, out of the way. 

Ower, over. 

Pantoufle, a slipper. 

Pearlins, a kind of lace. 

Pedder-coffe, travelling merchant. 
Pinners, a lady’s head-dress with lappets. 
Pleuch-pettle, the plough stick for clear- 
ing the earth, sometimes the plough stilt. 
Ploy, an entertainment, a gaudeamus. 
Pock-pudding, an epithet applied to Eng- 
lishmen. 

Pyet words, ornate language. 

Rape, a rope. 

Redd, to clear. 

Rede, counsel, advice. 

Rickle, a heap. 


Rokelay, a short cloak. 

Rowan-tree, the mountain ash. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Sain, to bless. 

Saunt, saint. 

Saut-fat, a salt-cellar. 

Sell, self. 

Sey, woollen cloth. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Skelp, gallop. 

Sough, calm sough , a quiet tongue. 
Spae-wife, a fortune-teller. 

Speer, to inquire. 

Spence, the pantry. 

Springald, a smart youth. 

Stammel, reddish. 

Steek, a stitch. 

Steer, disturb. 

Swankie, a smart fellow. 

Syne, since, ago. 

Tale-pyet, tell-tale. 

Thraw, to twist. 

Threep, to aver or contend for. 

Tirl, to turn or twist. 

Tillyvally, trifling, impertinent. 

Tocher, dowry. 

Tod, a fox. 

Toddy, whiskey with hot water and sugai; 
Trangam, a trinket. 

Trotters, sheep’s feet singed. 

Tuilzie, a scuffle or imbroglio. 

Twal, twelve. 

Umquhile, the deceased. 

Usquebagh, whiskey. 

Vi vers, victuals. 

Wadna, would not. 

Wanion, misfortune. 

Waur, worse. 

Wean, an infant or child. 

Weft, a signal. 

Weise, to guide, direct, or turn. 

Wem, a mark. 

Whilk, which. 

Whinger, a heavy sort of sword. 

Whirried, whirled. 

Winn a, will not. 

Wylie-coat, an under coat or vest. 


i 


Yammer, to whimper or whine. 
Yoldring, the yellow-hammer. 


INDEX TO THE MONASTERY. 


Abbot. See Boniface. 

Allen Glen, Author’s explanations, 4. 

Amours, time of tale, 314. 

Antiquarian study, uses of, 7. 

Army, march of, like a serpent, 376. 

Avenel Castle, 254. 

Avenel, Lady, seeks refuge at Glendearg, 
62 ; studying the Book, 70 ; death of, 107; 
( see also Mary and Julian). 

Battle at Kennaquhair, 386. 

Beeches, lateness of foliage, 101. 

Bible, consolations of, 334. 

Bible, Lady of Avenel’ s, 70 ; mysterious re- 
turn of, 103 ; snatched from the fairy fire, 
145 ; discovered by Mary, 330. 

Bible as used by Satan, 99. 

Bodkin scene, 218. 

Bolton, Stawarth, visits Glendearg, 57 ; dis- 
armed by Halbert, 389. 

Boniface the Abbot, 77 ; troubled, 89 ; in 
reverie, ox ; reconciled to Eustace, 130 ; 
visit to Sir Piercie at Glendearg, 18 1 ; at 
dinner, 205 ; alarm about the invaders, 
362 ; resigns in favor of Eustace, 368. 

Bonnet pieces, 252. 

Book, Lady Avenel’ s. See Bible. 

Border creed of vengeance, 296. 

Border peel-towers, 50. 

Borderers’ good faith, note , 421. 

Bourne, Geordie, note on, 419. 

Bridge-end Drawbridge, 83 ; note, 417. 

Brown Man of the Moors, 54. 

Buts and Ifs, 78. 

Carey, Sir Robert’s visit to his prisoner, 
note, 419. 

Catherine Avenel’s mistress, 261 ; spurned 
from her master, 272 ; found on the battle- 
field, 387 ; her infant rescued by Halbert, 
3 ? 1 -. 

Christie of the Clinthill, m ; fettered in the 
Monastery, 123 ; freed by Eustace, 126 ; 
conversation with Sir Piercie, 166 ; con- 
ducts Halbert and Warden into Avenel 
Castle, 258 ; brings Warden prisoner to 
Glendearg, 332 ; makes terms for his 
master, 358 : death on the battle-field, 
388. 

Church vassals, 49. 

Clutterbuck, introductory epistle from, 17 ; 
interview with the Benedictine respecting 
Melrose Abbey, 4. 

Clutterbuck, Author’s answer to, 39. 

Colmslie Tower, note, 415. 


Corri-nan-shian fountain, 139. 

Cross, signing of the, 345. 

David I. founder of Melrose Abbey, 48. 

Domestics, time of tale, 69. 

Douglas family genealogy, note on, 423. 

Dry nurses, dislike to, 90. 

Duel between Halbert and Sir Piercie, 241. 

Duty, different calls of, 338. 

Editor’s peculiarities, 42. 

Education among the church vassals, 51. 

Edward Glendinning, reception of the Eng- 
lish captain, 57 ; at his studies, 136 ; ex- 
postulates with his brother, 231 ; wants 
to avenge his brother, 284 ; his startling 
confession, 348 ; becomes an inmate of the 
Monastery, 362. 

Elspeth Glendinning, 56 ; visited by Fathers 
Philip, 79, and Eustace, 102 ; sorrow for 
her son, 301. 

Epithets, quaint, note, 417. 

Euphuism, Author’s explanation, n ; criti- 
cism on, notes , 4T5, 420. 

Eustace, Father, declines the cup, 92 ; visit 
to Glendearg, 102 ; carries off the Book, 
1 15 ; and encounter with the White Lady, 
1 18 ; confesses to the Abbot, 129 ; reasons 
for keeping Sir Piercie at Glendearg, 194; 
scruples about the venison, 206 ; return 
to the Tower, 281 ; meeting with Henry 
Warden, 338 ; liberates him, 355 ; elected 
Abbot, 354 ; refuses the intercession of 
Warden, 398 ; meeting with Murray and 
Morton, 404. 

Fairies, Scotch, 54 ; note on, 416. 

Fairy superstition, Author’s explanation, 8. 

Fare- thee- well, thou holly green ! 414. 

Fencing in duelling, 241. 

Feus in Scotland, 49. 

Foppery of the sixteenth century, note, 419. 

Fops past and present, 164. 

Foster, Sir John, 366 ; meeting with Murray 
and Morton, 391. 

Freebooters useful to the monks, 128. 

Friday scruples, 206. 

Gallantry in time of war, note, 415. 

George Inn at Melrose, 22. 

Ghost of Avenel, 70. 

Glendearg, Author’s explanation, 4 ; de- 
scription, 52. 


43° 


INDEX TO THE MONASTERY, 


Glendinning, Simon, 55 ; ghost of, 74 ; {see 
also Edward, Elspeth, and Halbert), 
Good evening, Sir Priest — song, 118. 


Halbert Glendinning, reception of the 
English captain, 57 ; flies from his books, 
137 ; exorcises the White Lady, 142 ; and 
descends with her, 144 ; introduced to Sir 
Piercie, 169 ; objects to his addresses to 
Mary, 176 ; seeks advice from the White 
Lady, 199 , description of him, 21 1 ; re- 
fuses the Abbot’s appointment of bow- 
bearer, 216 ; and presents Sir Piercie with 
the bodkin, 218 ; challenged by him, 223 ; 
troubled thoughts, 228 ; the duel, 236 ; fall 
of his antagonist, 242 ; flight, and meets 
Warden, 245 ; conducts him to Avenel 
Castle, 250 ; escape, 278 ; falls in with the 
pedler, 373 ; and* interview with Murray, 
378 ; meets the English force at Kenna- 
quhair, 388 ; picks up Catherine’s infant, 
390 ; is granted the hand of Mary Avenel 
and the Castle, 404. 

Half-pay, delights of, 18. 

Handfasting, 270. 

Heresy, Father Philip’s admonition, 79. 

Hillslap Tower, note, 415. 

Hob Miller’s visit to Glendearg, 148. 

Honor among the Borderers, note, 421. 

Indulgences to the monks, note, 421. 

Jack-men, iii. 

Judgment that detects faults only, 342. 

Julian Avenel, 67 ; in his tower, 260 ; throws 
Warden into the dungeon, 273 ; death of, 
387 ; note on, 418. 

Kennaquhair (Melrose), Clutterbuck’s 
amusements at, 20 ; description, 47. 

Lochside Tower, 255. 

Long bow of England, 63. 

Love waits not for the sanction of heraldry, 
348. 

Lover when lost preferred to the surviving 
rival, 327. 

Lyly, John, the wit, 165. 

Macfarlane’s geese, 157. 

Maiden, whose sorrows wail the living dead, 
328. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 274. 

Martin the shepherd, 61. 

Mary Avenel, 64 ; sees her father’s ghost, 
72 ; with the two brothers, 137 ; descrip- 
tion of, 158 ; expostulates with Halbert, 
233 ; accuses Sir Piercie of murder, 283 ; 
visited by the White Lady, 328 ; her care 
for the Book, 354 ; wedding, 412. 

Melrose (Kennaquhair), scene of the nov- 
el, Author’s explanation, 3; Clutterbuck’s 
amusements at, 20 ; description, 47. 

Melrose Abbey, 47 ; search in, by Clutter- 
buck and the Benedictine, 33. 

Men-ily swim we, the moon shines bright, 86. 

Military zeal, 17. 


Mill multures, 149. 

Miller. See Hob. 

Monastery of St. Mary (Melrose), 47. 

Monastic ambition, 122. 

Monks’ indulgences, tiote, 421. 

Mortal warp and mortal woof, 146. 

Murray, Lord James, 377. 

Mysie of the Mill, 150 ; admiration of Sir 
Piercie, 161 ; makes herself useful in the 
kitchen, 18 1 ; resolves to rescue Sir Pier- 
cie, 304 ; is presented with his gold chain, 
313 ; changes her dress and becomes his 
page, 3 22 I second rescue of Sir Piercie, 
392- 

Natural manners of an uncivilized peo- 
ple, 12. 

November melancholy, 101. 

O ay ! the monks, they did the mischief, 47, 

Pf.dler met by Halbert, 373. 

Peel-towers, 50. 

Philip, Father, visits Glendearg, 78 ; carries 
off the Book, 81 ; adventure with the 
White Lady, 85 ; arrival at the Monas- 
tery, 95. 

Piercie, Sir, Author’s explanations, 13 ; ar- 
rival at Glendearg, 163 ; fine speeches, 
167 ; soliloquy on his situation, 179 ; re- 
lates his mission to the Abbot, 186 ; his 
dress admired by Mysie, 213; presented 
with the bodkin, 218 ; challenges Halbert, 
223 ; the duel, 236 ; falls, 242 ; return to 
the Tower, and accused of murder, 283 ; 
relates the circumstances of the duel, 289 ; 
escape from the Tower, 309 ; sets off for 
Edinburgh with Mysie, 322 ; annoys the 
Abbot with his fine speeches, 396 ; made 
prisoner, and exposure of, 409 ; notes on, 
415, 417, 419- 

Pinkie Cleuch battle, 61. 

Prayer, blessed ness of, 354; consolations, 327. 

Preachers at the Reformation, 275. 

Pride and reason, 230. 

Procession from the Abbey, 402. 

Red coat, love of, 18. 

Reformation preachers, 275. 

Reformers, early, scruples of, 108. 

Romish Church, errors of, 330 ; discussion 
on, 341 ; in Scotland, state of, time of 
tale, 335. 


St, Mary’s Monastery, 47. 

Saints, invocation of, 345. 

Servants, time of tale, 69. 

Sidney’s Astrcfihel, 226. 

Sorners in Scotland, 117. 

Still small voice, 331. 

Stuart family, pedigree of, ?tote, 424. 
Stukely, Thomas, note on, 417. 


Thou who seek’st my fountain lone, 
Tibb Tacket, 73. * " 

Twapenny Faith, 251. 

Tweed at Melrose, 47. 


INDEX TO THE MONASTERY. 


431 


Vassals of the Church, 49. 
Vengeance, the Borderer’s creed, 296. 


Warden, Henry, meets Halbert, 246 ; and 
is guided to Avenel Castle, 250 ; objects to 
Avenel’s mode of life, 269 ; brought Pris- 
oner to the Sub-Prior, 337 ; ordered to be 
bound, 343 ; liberated on parole, 355 ; 
visits the convent, 397. 

Watt, James, his scientific achievements, 
39 - 

What I am, I must not show, 141, 


White Lady, Author’s explanation, 9 ; ap- 
pears to Mary, 65 ; Tibb’s account of, 75 ; 
encounter with Father Philip, 85 ; and 
with Eustace, 117; unhorses Christie, 
125 ; meeting with Halbert, 140 ; gives 
him the bodkin, 204 ; appears in Halbert’s 
bedroom, 230 ; reveals the Book to Mary, 
328; appears to Edward, 351; last appear- 
ance, 412 ; criticism on, notes, 415, 424. 

Women naturally compassionate, 303. 

Word, the, slayeth, 81. 

Yorke, Rowland, note on, 417. 


END OF THE MONASTERY. 

















4 








4 






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